#punctuated with moments of dread

[fvsm4x]

𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

synopsis. Pregnancy, usually a positive outcome of love between two partners that love each other deeply. But Pregnancy resulting from someone using you for their own pleasure is far from a positive outcome

+ warning/content. bully Gojo Satoru x female reader - reader is pregnant - mentions of abortion - mature themes/MDNI - usual warnings - suguru and reader are siblings - gojo is a fuckboy - angst angst angst:))

+ word count. 4.9k

a/n. Been a while since i‘ve updated this series…

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As your mother and father stormed out of your room, they slammed the door with a force that rattled the walls, leaving you alone with your brother in the suffocating silence that followed. The finality of that door slamming shut felt like an ominous punctuation—a statement that there was no turning back.

You stood frozen, your heart pounding so loudly that it drowned out the echo of their footsteps retreating down the hall. A knot tightened in your throat as the weight of their words crashed over you, a tidal wave of shame and dread. You forced yourself to take deep, steady breaths, trying desperately to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. The last thing you wanted was for your brother to see you like this—vulnerable, broken, on the verge of falling apart.

Is that it? you wondered, panic clawing at your insides. Is this really it? Am I actually getting kicked out? The thought left you feeling hollow, like everything you had ever counted on had been stripped away in a single, merciless instant.

Your mind raced, leaping to thoughts of your future—or what little was left of it. Everything you’d worked for, everything you’d dreamed of, felt like it was slipping through your fingers, unraveling faster than you could piece it back together. You could see the edges of your life falling away. Your education, your home, the support you once took for granted. All of it was disappearing, leaving only the stark reality of an uncertain path ahead.

You clenched your hands, digging your nails into your palms to anchor yourself, trying to stave off the wave of despair building inside you. It felt like your world was caving in, each piece of your carefully planned life crumbling in a way that seemed beyond repair.

Your brother shifted beside you, breaking the silence as he cleared his throat, his face etched with worry. He reached out a tentative hand, hovering as if unsure whether to comfort you or respect the fragile space you’d created between yourself and your emotions.

Your brother’s hand finally found your shoulder, his touch gentle but grounding. His silence spoke louder than words, and for a moment, it was all you could rely on. Even though he didn’t know what to say, his presence gave you something solid to hold onto in the midst of the chaos unraveling inside you.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re just… angry. They’ll come around. Maybe if we just talk to them tomorrow, things will calm down.”

You shook your head, the harsh reality already settling into place. “No, Suguru.. you heard them. They were serious. They want me gone.”

He looked down, his brows knitted together in frustration. “But where will you go? You can’t just… be out there by yourself.” The helplessness in his voice mirrored your own fear, but even he didn’t have a solution.

You glanced around your room—the bed you’d grown up in, the books you’d loved and underlined, the photos on the wall capturing fragments of happier moments, times when things were simpler, manageable. Each item felt like a piece of the life you were about to lose, like a museum of memories that would soon be locked away from you forever.

The silence between you and your brother grew heavy, and as much as you wanted to break it, words failed you. What could you say? That you’d made a mistake? That you hadn’t meant for any of this to happen? (You hadn‘t) But they all sounded hollow, too small to carry the weight of what you were facing.

Finally, your brother spoke, his voice determined. “You don’t have to do this alone. We’ll figure something out. You can live at my apartment—until you have a plan, at least. I don‘t really use it, so don‘t worry. I’ll help you. Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”

His words offered a sliver of hope, but even as you nodded, uncertainty lingered. You knew your brother meant well, but deep down, you both understood how complicated it would be for him to go against your parents’ wishes. They’d raised him with the same expectations, the same rules—and while his heart was with you, his loyalty was torn.

But still, the idea of having somewhere to go, even if only temporarily, softened the blow just enough for you to breathe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, but your gratitude was genuine. You reached for him, wrapping your arms around him tightly. The hug was the only comfort you had at that moment, the only thing anchoring you against the overwhelming feeling of loss and uncertainty.

After a long silence, he pulled back slightly, his face determined. “Go pack a few things. Whatever you need tonight. We’ll get out of here quietly. I’ll take care of the rest.”

-

Gojo leaned back in his chair, the squeak of the metal legs against the floor barely audible over the low murmur of his classmates. He absentmindedly tapped a pen against his notebook, the rhythmic click-click of it matching the unease simmering in his chest. His gaze drifted out the classroom window, where the afternoon sun cast long shadows on the pavement. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, and that last encounter in the classroom felt like it had happened yesterday, every moment still vividly etched in his mind.

He recalled the way the quiet hum of the school’s empty corridors amplified every sound—the soft, breathy gasps you made, the rush of your breathing as he pressed you against the cool surface of the wall. It was intoxicating, each detail replaying in his head like a film on repeat. But oddly enough, it pained him that he hadn’t seen you since then.

At first, he shrugged it off, convincing himself that you were just playing hard-to-get or perhaps needed some space after everything that had happened. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to need time to collect themselves after an encounter with him— he had that effect on people. But as the days turned into weeks, that initial dismissal turned into a dull, nagging worry that gnawed at him.

Gojo tried to push the thoughts aside, telling himself that you’d show up eventually, that it was just a phase. But your absence had created an odd emptiness in his daily routine, a persistent itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He was used to you being there, your presence a strange but comforting constant, and now that comfort was replaced with a gnawing curiosity.

Then there was Suguru, your brother, whose steady presence at school made everything feel even stranger. He carried on with his day as though nothing had changed, greeting Gojo with his usual casual indifference, yet he never mentioned you. Gojo found himself watching Suguru more closely than he intended, searching for any hint or sign that might explain your absence. He could feel the itch of curiosity clawing at him, but part of him resisted asking outright. He didn’t want to seem like he cared too much, but every time he spotted Suguru without you, that curiosity intensified.

Had something happened to you? Did you get sick? Or had you simply decided to avoid him? The thought was uncomfortably unsettling, and he brushed it aside, frustrated with himself for even considering it.

It was frustrating. Gojo couldn’t quite understand why you were occupying so much of his mind. At first, he tried to blame it on Suguru—your brother was a constant reminder of you, after all—but he’d grown accustomed to that long ago. It wasn’t like him to fixate on anyone, especially someone who usually melted into the background. And yet, here he was, replaying that last encounter in his mind, scanning hallways, and lingering just a bit longer outside your classes, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

He could chalk it up to boredom, a simple distraction to stave off the monotony of his day-to-day life. But deep down, he knew that there was something more than that. The thrill of teasing you, the way your face would scrunch up in irritation when he pushed you down in the hallways—it was strangely addictive. You had become his little victim, a source of amusement that made the slow days feel bearable. Now that you were gone, it left a void he couldn’t fill.

He hated admitting it, but he missed picking on you. The thought made his jaw clench, and a twisted grin crept across his face. Maybe he’d overestimated his hold over you, convinced that you would always be there for him to mess with. Or perhaps this was some kind of game you were playing, deliberately making him feel your absence, and it annoyed him even more.

Days continued to pass without a sign of you, and then, one morning, Suguru didn’t show up to school. Gojo was caught off guard by the emptiness in the usual spots where he’d see his friend. Normally, Suguru was as dependable as clockwork, always showing up right on time, effortlessly composed and ready to move through the day. Gojo couldn’t help but feel a strange twist in his stomach, wondering if something had happened. Maybe Suguru’s absence was tied to yours?

When Suguru finally returned the next day, he looked…off. His usually neat hair was slightly disheveled, his clothes a bit rumpled. There was an exhausted heaviness in his steps, and dark shadows under his eyes made him look as though he hadn’t slept all night. Gojo’s eyes followed him as he trudged through the school halls, quieter than usual, avoiding small talk and slipping into his seat without so much as a glance at anyone.

It was unlike Suguru to be this way. He barely looked up during the lunch break, barely mumbled a response when someone tried to talk to him. And Gojo could feel the unspoken weight hanging over him like a shadow—an air of tension, of something strained and unresolved. It made Gojo’s curiosity burn even stronger, a gnawing need to know what had happened.

But when Gojo finally approached him, Suguru only glanced up, his gaze tired and distant, and muttered a soft, “Not today, Satoru.” There was a finality in his tone, a closed-off energy that Gojo hadn’t seen before. It was clear that Suguru was carrying something heavy, something he wasn’t ready—or willing—to share.

And somehow, that only made his thoughts drift back to you. The emptiness left by your absence grew sharper, more pointed, and with it came a sinking feeling that whatever was happening with Suguru…was connected to you.

Gojo scoffed, shaking his head at himself as he tried to push thoughts of you aside. Why was he even letting you get to him? It wasn’t like him to dwell on anyone, let alone someone who’d gone MIA after a single hookup. He had more important things to think about—better distractions to keep himself entertained. Besides, if you were going to play hard-to-get or whatever this was, then that was on you.

With a lazy smirk, he glanced around the classroom, letting his gaze settle on a few familiar faces. Plenty of girls would kill for his attention— he didn’t need to waste any more time thinking about you. He’d spent weeks hoping for some sign of you, but maybe it was time he reminded himself of how easy it was to move on.

After class, he slipped out of the room, his stride slow and confident as he scanned the hallways. Within minutes, he found what he was looking for—an upperclassman lingering by her locker, eyeing him with a coy smile. He’d seen her around before, noticed the way her gaze lingered whenever he passed by.

Perfect.

With a quick sweep of his hair, he put on that easy charm, the one that always drew people in, and walked over, leaning casually against the lockers beside her. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Long day?”

The girl blinked, caught off guard for a second before her lips curled into a smile. “Not anymore,” she replied, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

Gojo grinned, already shifting into the familiar rhythm of flirting that he knew so well. Within moments, they were leaning close, sharing secretive whispers and low laughs, her hand resting on his arm as she hung onto every word he said. He had a way of making them feel special, as if they were the only person in the world. He knew exactly what to say, how to let his gaze linger just long enough to make them squirm.

As he let the conversation drift into something more suggestive, he found himself glancing around, almost instinctively, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of you walking by. He mentally cursed himself for it, forcing himself to focus on the girl in front of him, but there was still that nagging sense of dissatisfaction. Even though he had her wrapped around his finger, it didn’t feel quite the same. She was willing, easy, and there was no thrill, no challenge. It felt…hollow.

For a moment, he wondered if this was just another way to forget you, a way to scratch an itch that wasn’t going away as easily as he’d hoped. The idea bothered him, and he dismissed it as quickly as it came. You didn’t matter—he was Gojo Satoru. He had girls practically throwing themselves at him every day. There was no reason he should be hung up on you.

-

The apartment was quiet—too quiet. Days slipped by in a gray monotony as you tried to settle into a space that felt as foreign as a stranger’s closet. There was nothing in the room that felt like you, just the sparse furniture your brother had left behind: a sagging couch with sunken cushions, a bed pushed awkwardly against the wall, and a handful of mismatched kitchen items. There were no family photos, no cozy blankets, not even a single potted plant to add life to the place. It was a hollow shell, his empty, seldom-used apartment, and now it was yours—a place to hide, but far from a home.

When you first came here, you thought you might be able to reach out, maybe even find comfort in a friend’s familiar voice. But the silence on the other end of the line grew heavier with each unanswered message. Some of your texts were left unread, others were marked “seen” and ignored. You’d started to convince yourself that somehow, they knew. They had to know about your mistake, your situation, and it was easier for them to turn away than to get involved. You could almost imagine their silent judgment, the whispers they might share when you weren’t around.

You felt backed into a corner, as if the world had abandoned you just when you needed it most. The shame felt insurmountable, an invisible wall that stopped you from trying again, that convinced you this loneliness was what you deserved.

You could barely feel it —the life inside you, growing silently, quietly, but undeniably there. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself resting a hand on your stomach without even realizing, feeling for something that wasn’t quite there yet, but knowing soon it would be. A thousand questions swirled in your mind. What kind of life would this child have? Would they hate you for the world you brought them into, for the choices you’d made that they would have to live with? The thought was like a chill running through your veins, paralyzing and real in a way nothing else was.

Then, late at night, as the hours stretched out, other thoughts would creep in—thoughts you tried to push away, but that stubbornly returned. Abortion. You felt the word like a weight in your chest, a tightness that you couldn’t swallow, but that was always there. In the dead silence of the apartment, you sometimes let yourself entertain the thought, if only for a moment, thinking how much easier it might be to turn away from this path. But then the guilt would wash over you, sinking deeper with every beat of your heart. It was a decision you couldn’t bring yourself to make, no matter how overwhelming everything felt.

You weren’t even sure you could hold your own life together, let alone bring another one into it. You hated feeling so trapped, as though every choice led to pain, no matter what you did. The idea of being a mother, of taking on this monumental responsibility, filled you with a dread that was hard to admit. It was as if each new day only added to a burden you were too afraid to carry yet too scared to set down. The future felt murky and shadowed, a looming unknown that swallowed up every glimmer of hope.

Sometimes, you’d find yourself standing by the window, gazing down at the quiet, dimly lit street below, lost in thoughts of an alternate life. What would it feel like to walk away from all this weight, to leave the fear and uncertainty behind? You let yourself imagine it—a life where you were free again, unburdened. But even as the fantasy flickered in your mind, there was a small, stubborn part of you that held on, that whispered maybe. Maybe you could carry this through. Maybe, despite everything, you could find a way to make this work.

To keep yourself grounded, you tried to build a routine. Every morning, you’d scroll through endless job listings, though each one felt like a reminder of the uncertainty surrounding you. Most positions didn’t seem right or possible for you now, but you kept looking. It was something to hold onto, some kind of structure when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers. You even organized the sparse kitchen, setting up the cabinets with a kind of precise care, as if putting things in order on the outside could bring some calm to the chaos inside.

One evening, as you sat cross-legged on the couch, the hum of distant traffic barely filled the silence. You stared at your phone screen, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. Loneliness settled over you, thick and heavy, amplified by the silence that had become so familiar. It was almost stifling, forcing you to confront thoughts you’d tried hard to avoid.

You missed your family, even if things between you had become strained. You missed the comforting predictability of home, the familiar sounds, the routine. Here, each day felt hollow and directionless, like floating in a fog with no sense of where you were headed. Sometimes, you’d sit there waiting, hoping for something to change, some sign that things would be okay, but the realization that it was entirely up to you weighed heavily.

A knock at the door jolted you out of your thoughts, sharp and unexpected in the stillness. Your heart gave a nervous jump as you hesitated, then forced yourself to cross the room. The apartment was usually so quiet, every sound amplified in the emptiness, and this interruption felt almost intrusive. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you opened the door to see the mailman standing there, holding a small, official-looking envelope in his hand.

“Here you go. Have a nice day,” he said with a nod, handing it over before turning to leave.

You mumbled a thank-you, barely audible, closing the door slowly as you stared down at the envelope. The stiff paper, the way your name was printed in impersonal black ink—it all radiated a sense of cold formality that sent a wave of dread curling in your stomach. You tore it open with shaking hands, telling yourself it was probably just another notice, a formality from the school.

But as your eyes scanned the letter, a sickening realization washed over you. It wasn’t just a reminder or a request for information. It was a notification—a final, official statement that you’d been dropped from school because of unpaid tuition. Your parents had stopped covering your fees without any warning, leaving the balance unpaid. And because you hadn’t attended in weeks, the school had processed it as a withdrawal.

You read the words again, trying to make sense of them, as if they would change on a second pass. But they stayed the same, cold and unyielding, spelling out a reality you hadn’t prepared for. The letter offered no alternatives, no appeal. Either you somehow paid the balance yourself, or you would be permanently removed from the roster.

A numb disbelief settled over you as you sank onto the couch, clutching the letter tightly. They’d actually done it. They’d cut you off without a word, leaving you adrift, stripped of the one place you’d thought you could depend on. A mix of anger and hurt bubbled up inside you, but the betrayal was what stung the most.

Your mind raced, thoughts colliding in a frantic spiral. What would you do now? Leaving school meant giving up on so many things—dreams you’d quietly held onto, plans that seemed so certain not long ago. It was like everything you’d worked toward, every late night studying and early morning hustle, had been erased in an instant. This wasn’t just a setback— it felt like a wall you’d crashed into with no way around.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you swallowed them back, forcing yourself to press your lips into a hard line. There was no one you could turn to for help, no one who could wave a magic wand and fix this.

You sat there on the couch, feeling the weight of the letter in your hand like a stone, its meaning sinking in deeper and deeper. The room seemed even colder, emptier, as if the walls themselves were closing in on you. Every step you’d taken had been building toward something, and now that path was gone, wiped away in the span of a single letter.

No matter what mistakes you’d made, you’d never expected your own family to cut you off 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲. You wanted to scream, to call them, to make them hear you and see what they’d done—but that door felt closed too, like an argument already lost. The bitter realization settled in— of course they weren’t going to reach out- they weren’t going to help. Afterall, they were the ones that kicked you out in the first place.

You glanced down at your phone, your fingers hovering over the screen as you debated sending another message to one of your friends. Maybe you could explain everything, maybe they’d understand, maybe they’d reach back and give you a lifeline. But a familiar fear held you back. The weight of your situation, your mistake, felt too heavy to burden anyone else with, and every time you imagined reaching out, a voice in the back of your mind reminded you that they hadn’t been there for you before. Why would they be there now?

The silence in the apartment grew louder, pressing in on you until it was almost unbearable. Desperate for a distraction, you got up and wandered aimlessly through the small space, moving things around on the counter, straightening the already-neat cupboards, just doing anything to keep your hands busy. But the distraction was short-lived, and the reality of your situation crept back in.

The future felt terrifyingly empty, an open void where all your plans used to be. The only clear thing was that you had no other choice now but to figure this out on your own. Slowly, a stubborn resolve began to build beneath the panic. You were here, alone, but that didn’t mean you had to stay stuck. Maybe, somehow, you could make this work. You could find a job, save up, find a way to get back into school. It felt like an impossible task, but it was the only path left.

With a deep breath, you grabbed your laptop and opened up a job-search site, scrolling through the endless list of options. Most were dead ends—part-time retail or night shifts that didn’t even pay enough to cover the rent suguru is payinh. But you forced yourself to keep looking, moving through page after page, searching for anything that might be a start, a way forward.

The hours slipped by, the weight of the decision settling over you like a cold blanket, but you kept scrolling, kept hoping that something would spark the possibility of change.

After what felt like hours scrolling through listings and filling out applications, your eyes grew tired, the screen blurring in front of you. You needed air, space to breathe, to feel something other than the weight pressing down on your chest. With a sigh, you closed your laptop, abandoning it on the couch, and made your way over to the small balcony just off the living room.

Stepping outside, you were greeted by the crisp night air, a chill that wrapped around you, cutting through the dullness. The street below was quiet, dim streetlights casting long shadows across the empty pavement. Leaning against the railing, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, letting the cold settle into your skin, grounding you, if only for a moment. The city felt vast from here, stretching out endlessly, full of people going about their lives, yet here you were, feeling like the only one left adrift.

As you opened your eyes, you gazed out over the neighborhood, the distant hum of cars a low, steady comfort. For a fleeting moment, you felt a strange sense of freedom, as if up here on this balcony, the problems inside couldn’t quite reach you. It was quiet, peaceful even, the world below carrying on, oblivious to your struggles.

You’d imagined such a different future, one where you’d be surrounded by friends, pursuing your passions, finding yourself. But now? It all felt like a distant memory, something that had happened to someone else entirely.

The sky above was cloudy, with only a few stars managing to peek through. You stared up, trying to find some kind of sign, something to remind you that you weren’t entirely alone, that maybe there was still a chance for things to change.

You stayed there a while, letting the cold numb the tension in your body, staring into the distance, thinking about what you’d do next. The thought of reaching out for help gnawed at you, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to take that step. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was just the fear of rejection. Either way, you knew that whatever came next would be up to you.

Your gaze drifted downward, tracing the shapes of the buildings, the shadows cast by streetlights, when a familiar flash of white caught your eye. Your heart clenched involuntarily. Gojo.

He was strolling down the sidewalk, his stride as arrogant and carefree as ever, his laughter echoing faintly up toward you. His arm was draped around the shoulders of a girl who leaned into him, her face turned up toward him with a bright smile, entirely captivated. They looked close, intimate, like they were the only two people in the world. Watching them, a dull ache pulsed in your chest, stirring a cocktail of emotions you didn’t want to face.

You gripped the railing tighter, your knuckles whitening. Memories clawed their way up, memories of him—of his smirk, his mocking words, the way he’d cornered you like he had every right. Gojo had always been cruel, but he wielded his charm like a weapon, drawing people in only to watch them squirm when he showed his true colors. He had treated you the same way, toying with you, using you, and then discarding you without a second thought.

The girl beside him had no idea, you thought bitterly. She was seeing the Gojo who played his part so well, the smooth talker, the charmer, the boy who seemed like he could do no wrong. But you knew better. You knew what lay beneath that mask, the callousness he could hide behind his easy smiles. And now, there he was, laughing without a care, completely untouched by everything he’d done to you, while you were left to piece yourself back together.

A cold, bitter anger welled up inside you, mingling with the helplessness you tried so hard to ignore. He had stolen something from you—something you could never get back. He is the reason you got kicked out and have a hard life now.

And yet here he was, walking down the street as if nothing had happened, as if you didn’t exist, a careless reminder of how easily he’d been able to walk away from the pain he’d caused.

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[wh0rephobic]

SALT ON SKIN.

PAIRING: dilf!anakin skywalker x fem!reader

SUMMARY: you forget to pay your AC bill during this blazing heatwave, your friend Leia Skywalker is nice enough to invite you over to swim in her pool.

WARNINGS: SMUT, age gap (20s-40s), oral (fem!receiving) fingering, piv, bondage, semi-public makeout, edging?, “best friend’s dad”, NSFW, MDNI

COUNT: 3.3k

It’s been hot, so hot. The kind of heat that strips you bare, that makes every breath taste like scorched metal and dust.

It’s the type of heat that keeps you up at night and makes you forget things by daybreak; things like when your next paper is due, what time practice is today, or — worst of all — forgetting to pay the air conditioning bill for your cheap college apartment this month, right in the middle of this dreaded heatwave.

The air in your room is thick enough to suffocate you. So, when your best friend and teammate Leia Skywalker invited you over to her house after softball practice to swim in the pool, you had to jump on it.

The moment you feel the water slice through the heat of your sunburnt skin, you knew it was the right call.

Lifting your head above the water, you use your two hands to slick your hair back, treading the water lightly.

“Come on, Luke! It’s not that cold!” You call to Leia’s brother, who’s standing indecisively on the diving board.

“Yeah!” Leia shouts, “don’t be a pussy!”

She punctuates her insult with a splash in his direction, proving that the water temperature is more refreshing than painful in this sticky heat. Luke flinches before glaring brutally at his sister, taking a step back before he launches himself off of the diving board, landing in the water with waves that are sure to be sent over you. You hold your hands up in defense, squealing playfully.

Soon enough, one cannonball turned into twenty, and hours passed by in saltwater bliss. No one noticed it when the sun melted into a tangerine haze and the day unraveled like a ribbon, slow and warm.

Nobody wanted to be the first one out, but regardless of if it was Luke or Leia, you knew you would be last.

Your chin rests on your hands, crossed over the pavement surrounding the pool as your eyes stare up to count the stars, gradually waking up the indigo sky.

It’s so quiet now. You can hear your own heartbeat calmly in your chest, accompanied by the soft sloshing of your feet kicking the water behind you, and distant crickets.

The sudden sound of the Skywalkers’ sliding glass door startles you, and you whip your head around with wide eyes, caught like a deer in headlights.

It’s Leia’s father.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s just me,” he chuckles, jokingly holding his hands up in surrender.

He’s shirtless, clad in red swim trunks.

You give him a friendly smile. “Hi Anakin,”

“Hello Y/N,” he tilts his head teasingly, “I didn’t think you’d still be here, I think Luke and Leia are both asleep.”

You hold your lip between your teeth. “Yeah, Leia told me I could stay a little while longer before I go back to my apartment.”

Anakin gestures approvingly, knitting his eyebrows in concern. “Do you still not have air conditioning?”

You shake your head. “They said it’ll be back tomorrow.”

He lets out a sigh, mirroring the look of disappointment on your face. “Well, stay here for as long as you’d like, I just wanted to jump in before I get ready for bed.”

“Sounds good,” you smile thankfully, nuzzling your chin back into your knuckles and resuming your star-counting as Anakin makes his way to the diving board.

Anakin has always been very nice to you, and you’re very grateful that he makes you feel so welcome whenever you visit, which is often since the Skywalkers’ live in the same town as the small community college that you, Leia, and Luke attend.

Once he jumps in, it’s not long before he makes his way over to where you rest on the concrete, placing his own forearm down for support before he leans down.

You turn your head and rest it in your arms, sideways as you look up at his silver eyes, lashes still clumping together with water from his dive.

You can’t help but notice how the pool light glows on his skin, outlining the ridges of the muscles of his broad shoulders and chest. It wasn’t a secret that Anakin was a conventionally attractive man. Although he was older, a lot of your teammates often threw jokes at Leia about it, and even if they were mainly just to gross her out, they did have some truth to them. You try not to let your eyes wander much, but you might’ve gone a little too far.

“So, how are classes going?”

Small talk. It was always the same filler questions, just something to pass the time and cover the silence. But something about it felt entirely different with Anakin. The words may sound empty, but his strong eye contact is rich with interest, desire… it’s hypnotic. The conversation continues to buzz seamlessly, every boring question loaded with context, swimming with something left unsaid. His voice dips a little too low for it to go unnoticed when he asks about your weekend, and your laugh lingers just a little too long. It’s stupid really, the teasing, the wandering eyes watching lips talk about professors and parking passes like both of your minds aren’t elsewhere, wondering what it would feel like to close this gap between you. Somehow, the meaningless conversation had turned into foreplay as you slowly gravitate towards each other.

Anakin raises a gentle hand to your temple and pushes a strand of damp hair behind your ear. A tender gesture, but his touch drags, tracing a light fingertip down your neck and following the curve of your spine. It’s obvious now.

“Anakin,” you whine. “You’re doing that on purpose,”

He huffs through his nose, chuckling at your helpless pout as a mischievous smile crawls onto his face.

“Doing what?”

But you couldn’t answer. In the silence of the summer dusk, neither of you dare break the eye contact that carries wordless confessions back and forth, between you two.

Each moment begins to melt into the next, and all of a sudden you find yourself rising up to full height, resting your pruned palms on the pavement. When your eyes finally shift down to glance at his lips once more, you feel a desire burn in your core. It’s aggressive and impossible to ignore, and you can’t help but wonder if Anakin feels it, too, as you two slowly magnet towards each other.

“Am I wrong for this?” He asks in a whisper low enough for only your ears.

You shake your head, “n-no,” you breathe.

Your lips meet in a tender, pillow-soft kiss that blooms in the pit of your stomach. His right hand rises up to softly cradle the curve of your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek when his lips move against yours, deepening the kiss.

With water lapping gently at your waists, it almost feels as if time has suspended itself between your heartbeats. There’s no reason to rush, you both know it. As your lips glide against each other with pacific rhythm, you anchor a hand on the back of his neck.

Minutes seem like hours before Anakin finally sucks your pouty bottom lip into his mouth, a sure sign that these quiet kisses are going somewhere. Things begin to escalate when you hook your index finger in one of the loops of his swim shorts and pull his hips toward yours. His cock springs to life behind the fabric that separates you two, and you can’t help but let out a quiet moan at the feeling of his big hand coming down to squeeze the fat of your hip. Anakin wastes no time licking into you, grunting at the lingering taste of strawberry soda on your tongue.

From your round hip, his fingers creep behind you to squeeze your ass, you let him slip his fingers underneath your black bikini bottoms to get a better grip as your own hands slide up his neck, tangling in his damp curls and tugging. Anakin lets out a soft groan into the ongoing kiss, only spurring you on to pull tighter. He gropes your body more firmly in response.

Rough, huh?

He uses his grasp on your hips to pull you in closer to him and you can feel his hard on nudge against your leg. His hands glide up your waist, gripping you firmly as a silent warning before he hoists you up onto the poolside concrete, welcoming himself into the space between your legs. You stable yourself on his strong shoulders, kiss not breaking for a second.

His large hands slide down your backside, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs before they land on your hips, once again. Your ass arches into his touch, leading Anakin to push deeper into the kiss with fever. His determination fuels the fire inside you that has been constantly growing throughout this whole interaction, melting your insides and leaving slick to drip into your bikini bottoms. You need more.

Your grip tightens on his shoulders before you drag your hips forward until his erection rested right against your pelvis. He can’t help but smile against you, you’re so needy.

With a barely audible whimper, Anakin finally pulls away. He can’t hold back anymore.

“Can I take you into the shed?” He whispers, hand caressing the back of your head.

“Yes,” you nod, embarrassingly eager. “Please.”

Your eyes gloss over as you start to beg for him, melted like putty under his gaze, desperate for anything he’s willing to give to you… you’ve needed this for too long.

Today, the stars are on your side, and he’s ready to become everything you’ve ever wished for.

Anakin leads you into the decorated pool shed and shuts the door behind you. He moved without hesitation, caging you against the counter, arms braced firmly on either side. The heat in his eyes made your throat dry with anticipation, with a thirst that only he can satisfy… he dives for your lips.

Wandering hands lead their own paths other wet skin, both of your suits still dripping on the tile. Anakin’s skilled hands cup your breasts, squeezing gently as he massages in teasing circles, making sure to flick his thumb over your clothed bud periodically. Every swipe pulls a quiet gasp from your lips that he drinks up like an addict, eager for more. You begin to palm him through his shorts.

With a grunt, he lifts you up by your thighs and carefully places you on the counter of the pool shed; the same counter that you, Luke, and Leia would mix cocktails with the liquor you’d steal from him. The memory makes you feel guilty, dirty for being here half-naked with none other than their father… it turns you on more than you’d care to admit. You nip playfully at his kiss-swollen lips.

You take your time tracing the prominent outline on his swimsuit, memorizing every dip and ridge before he’s even able to pull it out… you can feel him getting harder by the second, his eyebrows lower in frustration at your taunting pace. He grunts, and you can’t help but giggle in response, slowing yourself down just to tease him some more.

But Anakin is not one for taking things slow.

He soon hooks two fingers into the tied waistband of your onyx bikini bottoms, pulling them down your legs without hesitation and lowering himself onto his knees. His arms hook around your plump thighs, jaw coming to rest on the edge of the counter, his face inches away from your glistening heat. You can feel his breath in your cunt, and you clench on nothing.

“Tell me,” he stares up at you with soft puppy eyes, “tell me what you want me to do to you,”

Your mouth. You think, and it’s the only thing you can think about, but whenever your mouth opens to say anything about it, you can’t find the words. A million thoughts in your head and you can’t get even a single one out.

But Anakin doesn’t need you to tell him what you want, the sheer sight of your pussy glistening in the moonlight tells him everything he needs to know. Flicking his eyes back and forth between your hot core and your wide eyes, Anakin leans in to lick an experimental stripe over your slit, tongue curling perfectly around your sensitive bundle of nerves. Your body jolts from excitement in his grasp, and he pulls back again to study your expression.

“That,” you choke, finally finding the words you’ve been looking for. “Do that again, please…”

Anakin dives into your heat again without any complaint, lapping up all of your juices with a ruthless pace that makes your thighs squeeze around his head, a shudder racking through your figure. His arms, thick with muscle, wrap around the back of your hips and pull you closer to him. Twitching in his grip, your hands reach down to steady yourself on him shoulders, fingernails digging crescents into tanned skin. He grunts in protest, pulling back.

“You’ve gotta be careful, angel.” He explains, “I can’t have my kids wondering where I got these scratches,”

“Okay, okay…” you nod breathlessly, desperately obedient if it means he’ll keep touching you like this.

It does, Anakin leans in once more and suckles gently on your clit, sending jolts of lightning through your body and making your legs kick out in overstimulation, fingers still planted on his shoulders. He lets go of the sensitive skin with a subtle pop before soothing it with a few flat licks. Without warning, his face dips lower, plunging his tongue deep inside of your core, drinking you up. The feeling of his wet muscle entering you makes you gasp, eyes rolling back as you clench on his mouth and subconsciously squeeze his shoulders again. He withdraws from your body again, dragging a whine from you.

“Come on,” he pouts, softly rubbing your hips with his thumbs. “Be good for me, hmm?”

“Yes, y-yes ‘m sorry!” You blabber, “please don’t stop, I’ll be good!”

He shakes his head. “I’m not gonna stop, but you have to be good—“

“I’ll be good!” You insist, “I promise, Anakin, please!”

He nods approvingly at you, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he leans back in for another taste of you. Your eyes rolling back with a low moan as you let him work your core, thighs shaking around his head, letting out deep gasps and sighs as you lose yourself in bliss on his skilled tongue. When the heat begins to coil in the pit of your stomach, your fingernails dart to his shoulders again. He stops.

He doesn’t say anything to you and moves quick before you can object. Within seconds, Anakin has his fingers untying your halter top, pulling it off from around your neck and leaving you completely exposed in the shimmering moonlight. Blue eyes tracing over your figure, he pulls the black string from your top until it dismantles. He then takes your two wrists in his free hand, moving them both behind your back and using the elastic band from your bikini top to bind them together.

He shakes his head disapprovingly, settling himself back down on his knees in front of you before he speaks.

“You never learn,” he tuts.

When Anakin’s mouth attaches once again to your throbbing clit, his fingers come down to meet your tight and welcoming entrance, plunging inside of you.

“Anakin!” You gasp, wrists pulling at your restraints.

You’re seeing stars, tumbling head-first 

Feeling every bud as you ride his tongue, body shaking with every drag of his fingers. His eyes are closed; brows knit in concentration as he devours you at an unforgiving pace. Your orgasm looms over you, ready to crash down on you any second now. It’s so close you can almost taste it on your tongue when your eyes blur, hips bucking against his face and needy hole pulsating around his knuckles. His eyes open, staring attentively at your face as he anticipates your release. He watches your lashes flutter shut, and the tightening coil in your stomach finally snaps. Electricity shoots out over every nerve, twitching helplessly in his arms as he eagerly licks up your cream, filling the pool shed with such disgusting sounds. You cry out.

When your spasms subside, so do Anakin’s aggressive strokes. He pulls off of your pussy when you finally let out a worn-out sigh of satisfaction, and your cheeks heat when you notice how his chin glistens with your slick.

“You look so pretty when you cum,” he says with a pussy-drunk smile.

His arms engulf your naked body when he comes in to kiss you, pulling you close enough to feel his dick again, still hard where it’s trapped in his red shorts.

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” He mumbles against your lips, and you enthusiastically nod in response, reluctant to break your kisses for another second.

He smiles, carefully pushing down his swim shorts and freeing his angry dick, red and leaking at the tip from its neglect. You feel his swollen head nudge at your slit, and you lift your knees up to rest above his hips, spreading yourself wide for his access.

With a heavy hand squeezing your hip, Anakin finally plunges inside of you, introducing his cock to your tight walls as you gasp and squirm against your restraints.

“Oh, god— Anakin-!” He silences your moans with another deep kiss as he fills you up whole, suffocating your pussy with his cock.

He ruts his hips gently against your core, once, twice… just enough to relax you before he can pick up the pace. Because when he does, it’s even more ruthless than his tongue.

His calloused fingers keep a firm grip on your hips as he thrusts into you, the room filling with the sound of soft moans and slapping skin as Anakin claims you as his own.

“Fuck, your pussy is so tight—“ he hisses, somehow managing to speed up his movements even more.

He rams into you with such fervor that you can feel it deep in your gut, getting pounded in with every harsh thrust to your helpless cunt, walls milking him. His head drops onto your shoulder, eyes screwing shut after the sheer sight of his cock getting lost in your greedy hole makes him twitch inside of you… the sounds coming from you might be the most angelic thing he’s ever heard. His rhythm begins to fall apart as he chases his hot release.

“F-Fuck, I’m gonna cum soon…” he warns, burying his face in your neck.

It’s only seconds later that Anakin pulls out of you, holding himself in his hand as he shoots white streaks all over your salty skin. You watch him throw his head back in his state of euphoria, letting out deep growls as he pumps himself out. Panting, he attaches his lips to yours, leading the messy pace of a sloppy kiss.

After a few minutes of slow kissing, coming down from both of your intense highs, the two of you finally come back to reality. Anakin frees your hands from behind your back before he pulls up his swim shorts, reaching behind you and handing you a few paper towels to clean yourself up with before you start to piece your black bikini back together, still damp from your evening swim.

Once you’ve both made yourselves decent, he plants one more ginger kiss on your forehead to seal your affair before you leave the shed.

“Why don’t you spend the night?” He offers, “I can set you up on the couch, then at least you’ll be able to sleep in the AC.”

You smile at his generosity.

“That would be great, Anakin.”

a/n: chilled and well-fucked. happy summer !

[beskars]

undisclosed desires; a silco x reader fic

rating: explicit word count: 3.7k warnings: shameless smut, porn without plot, jealousy, resolved sexual tension, dirty talk, oral sex (fem receiving), possessiveness, subby silco if you squint, 'good girl' + other pet names. no use of y/n [ao3]

“Is that what you wanted?” he questioned, his voice dropping lower as he crowded you against his office door, “To make me watch while you let that worthless nobody touch what’s mine?”

The admission hung in the air between you as his gaze burned into you, demanding an answer.

“Yours?” you challenged softly, “that’s interesting, considering how deliberately you’ve been pushing me away all this time.”

He reached for you then, his hand dropping to his side before it found you, clenching into a fist.

“Pushing you away?” he murmured, a short, bitter laugh punctuating his response. “No. On the contrary, I have let you get closer—far closer than I ever should have. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve fought to maintain what precious distance I am able to keep from you?”

undisclosed desires

You’d chosen your outfit for the evening carefully, selecting an ensemble that would draw his attention without being too obvious in its intention. A part of you felt slightly embarrassed that you’d resorted to such measures, but after months of subtle attempts to convey how you felt about him had been met with that same practiced distance he maintained with everyone, you had grown almost desperate in your need to provoke a reaction from him. Even contempt would be better than indifference.

The Last Drop was crowded tonight, the thrumming bassline vibrating the floor beneath your boots as you wove through a mass of bodies to position yourself just below the balcony he often occupied. You resisted the urge to look up, but you could feel his presence — could picture him standing there, hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the scene below. How many times you had stood beside him, the distance between you a fathomless chasm, cataloguing the elegant lines of his profile. Hoping he wouldn’t catch you staring. Hoping even more that he would.

There was nothing especially memorable about the man who approached you, though he was handsome enough in a plain way. What he lacked in looks he made up for in enthusiasm, eagerly drawing your back against his chest as you undulated to the pulse of the music. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you even closer, and you tried to ignore that the shape of them was all wrong, the fingers too broad as they dug into your skin. Nothing like the fine-boned hands of the man watching you from above, whose stare was now too heavy to ignore. 

Tipping your head back against the shoulder of your nameless partner, you caught a groan escape from his lips as you rolled your hips back.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” the man breathed out, and you forced a smile, willing yourself to keep up the false display for your audience of one. 

Unable to stop yourself from glancing up, you caught sight of Silco’s jaw tightening for the briefest of moments before his usual placid expression slid back into place. He held your gaze for a beat, his face betraying nothing, before he turned and strode in the direction of his office, disappearing from your line of vision. You tried to swallow around the lump in your throat, but found yourself unable to, suddenly suffocated by the closeness of the man behind you and the heat of his breath on your neck. 

“I’ll be right back,” you told him, disentangling yourself before he could ask where you were going, pushing through the crowd toward the bar. 

You were stopped in your tracks by one of Silco’s employees, his hand wrapping around your bicep firmly but carefully as he guided you through the club.

“You’re wanted upstairs,” he said by way of explanation, only relinquishing his grip once you reached the bottom of the steps. 

The walk to his office felt longer than usual, anticipation and dread building in equal measure with each stride you took. He was standing at the window when you entered, the angularity of his face thrown into even deeper contrast by the sickly glow of the city lights behind him. He was silent for several long moments, giving you ample time to take in the rigidity of his posture, the displeasure pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“Would you care to explain,” he began, a dangerous edge to his silky voice, “what little game you think you’re playing?”

“I’m not sure how what I do in my free time is any of your concern,” you replied, watching his features go taut at your insolence.

“No?” he asked, moving toward you with a predatory grace that made you shiver. “Then perhaps you’d like to explain why you were watching so closely for my reaction when that man had his hands all over you.”

Your pulse quickened as he all but closed the distance between you, fighting to maintain your defiant expression.

“Maybe I wanted you to watch,” you told him, the words slipping out before you could trap them behind your teeth.

“Is that what you wanted?” he questioned, his voice dropping lower as he crowded you against his office door, “To make me watch while you let that worthless nobody touch what’s mine?”

The admission hung in the air between you as his gaze burned into you, demanding an answer.

“Yours?” you challenged softly, “that’s interesting, considering how deliberately you’ve been pushing me away all this time.”

He reached for you then, his hand dropping to his side before it found you, clenching into a fist.

“Pushing you away?” he murmured, a short, bitter laugh punctuating his response. “No. On the contrary, I have let you get closer—far closer than I ever should have. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve fought to maintain what precious distance I am able to keep from you?”

“No, I don’t,” you snapped, unable to keep the hurt from seeping into your voice. “It doesn’t seem to be hard for you at all.”

He let out an uncharacteristically frustrated exhalation, his good eye fluttering closed.

“Then know this,” he said, his gaze snapping back to yours, “I have lain awake every night for months , replaying every single touch, every lingering glance you’ve given me. I have spent so long trying to convince myself that keeping you at arms length was the right choice, the rational choice, only for my resolve to crumble within seconds of being in your presence.”

Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you watched him.

“If that’s how you feel, then why—” you started.

“Because everyone I allow close becomes a weakness,” he gritted out, “because watching you dance with that man tonight made me want to tear him apart with my bare hands. Because the way you make me feel, the things you make me want—that loss of control will be my undoing. You will be my undoing—”

He stopped, seemingly struggling for words, before reaching for you, his hands cradling your face tenderly even as his lips met yours with bruising intensity.

“Tell me what I make you want,” you whispered against his mouth when you finally broke apart, your fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Everything,” he admitted roughly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Anything you’ll give me.”

“Silco,” you breathed, reveling in the almost pained groan he let out against your skin, “it’s all yours. I’m all yours, have been for so long—”

He drew back to look at you, his composure beautifully disheveled, chest rising and falling rapidly as he caged you against the door within his arms.

“Do you have any idea what it did to me,” he murmured, “watching you touch him like that? Knowing you were doing it to deliberately provoke me?”

His fingers found your waist as he bowed his forehead against yours, silent for a moment as he attempted to steady himself.

“I could see it in every movement,” he continued, “the way you glanced up, hoping I was watching— knowing I was watching—”

“Yes,” you admitted quietly, “I just wanted to know you felt something for me, anything—”

“I feel everything for you,” he told you, the words scraped from somewhere deep within him as he clutched at you tighter, “every moment of the day, wanting you, needing you…”

He trailed off, his hands slipping beneath the revealing top you’d chosen so carefully, his thumbs tracing possessive patterns against your sternum. 

“And then you show up here, dressed like this…” he paused, his eye fluttering closed as you shivered beneath his touch, “knowing exactly what you’re doing to my control, knowing I couldn’t bear the sight of someone else touching you like this—”

You hummed in agreement, arching into the warmth of his hands.

“Yes,” you whispered, “wanted you to stop being so fucking careful and just give in.”

Tilting your head, you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of cardamom and tobacco, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, the uncharacteristic loss of eloquence causing scintillas of heat to race up your spine. “Getting exactly what you wanted, aren’t you?”

You nodded, trailing kisses down the column of his throat until you were hindered by his shirt collar, letting out a frustrated sound as you tried to undo his tie with trembling fingers. 

“I shouldn’t reward such behavior,” he told you darkly, “shouldn’t give in to you like this when you behaved so wickedly downstairs, making me watch the way you pressed against him like he was the one you wanted—”

His hands stilled and you whimpered in protest, cupping his jaw desperately. 

“You’re the only one I want,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his lips before continuing, “the only one I’ve ever wanted like this. Gods, if you knew the things I think about you…”

You trailed off, tracing his lower lip with your thumb, heart fluttering as he kissed the tip of it with unexpected tenderness.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his hands continuing their exploration of your torso, leaving your skin flushed and aching in his wake. “Make me believe you want this as badly as I do.”

Drawing in an unsteady breath, you leaned into him, your breath fluttering against his ear.

“I’ve lain awake at night thinking of you, too,” you whispered, a heat rising in your cheeks as you continued, “imagining us here, in your office, sitting on your desk while you kiss me, your hand between my legs so you can feel how wet I am for you…”

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his voice hoarse with desire, clutching at your hips.

“Pretending my hands are yours while I touch myself,” you went on, tracing the shell of his ear with your tongue, “not letting myself come until I imagine you giving me permission to—”

He sucked in a breath at your admission, turning his head to capture your lips in a dizzying kiss.

“The mouth on you, sweetheart—” he choked out, “saying things that make me want to—”

“To what?” you challenged, watching his control unravel bit by bit, “show me. Show me exactly what I make you want. Show me who I belong to.”

With that, his composure finally snapped, his mouth claiming yours in fierce, possessive kisses as he pushed your top up before finally lifting it over your head and discarding it.

“Mine,” he murmured, kissing his way down your neck, licking into the hollow of your throat as your fingers carded through his hair. “Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Only mine.”

“Silco,” you keened, clutching just tightly enough for him to exhale shakily against your stomach. 

Dropping to his knees, his hands skated down your sides to stop at your waist, holding you exactly where the stranger had earlier. 

“Mark me,” you begged, unable to stop yourself. “Make me forget anyone else has ever touched me, please—”

Letting out a quiet, desperate curse, he acquiesced, pressing heated kisses to your skin, erasing the memory of each point of contact from earlier with his mouth. He glanced up at you, a question in his gaze, and you nodded, gasping as his teeth sank into sensitive flesh. Each mark he placed was careful, deliberate, his tongue tenderly laving each bruise before he moved on, leaving you a trembling mess. 

“Perfect,” he breathed, leaning back on his heels to admire his work, his fingertips tracing the blooms on your skin. “You’re so perfect like this, so beautiful.”

You barely had time to bask in the adoration in his voice before he was reaching for your remaining clothes, hesitating at your zipper as if waiting for permission before you urged him on with a whispered plea. With painstaking slowness he dragged the garments down your legs until you could step out of them, kicking them to the side to join the rest of your outfit. Silently, reverently, he lifted one of your legs to hitch it over his shoulder, turning to the side to press a line of kisses to the inside of your thigh.

“Tell me you want this,” he urged you, looking up pleadingly. “Tell me I can have you—”

You nodded frantically, nearly sobbing with need.

“You can have me,” you babbled hoarsely, “you can have all of me, I’m yours, only yours—have been for so long—”

He let out a gratified curse, leaning forward and engulfing you in the heat of his mouth, moaning at the taste of the arousal gathered there. Your hips jolted forward at the contact, and you let out a soft cry as his tongue flattened against your clit. The sound seemed to bring him back to himself, pulling away and getting to his feet even as you whimpered in protest at the loss of his touch.

“Need you in my bed,” he told you, grabbing your waist and drawing you flush against him, “need to know that I’m the only one who gets to hear those pretty little sounds you’re making.”

His hand slipped between your legs, fingertips brushing against you teasingly before he covered your mouth with his, swallowing your moan. He walked you into his bedroom, his thumb tracing achingly light patterns against your clit all the while, stopping only to lock the door behind him. It was quieter here, the pounding bassline of the club a dull muffle beneath your feet as you watched him, your trembling breath audible above the faint music. When he reached for you again, you caught his wrist, giving a single shake of your head.

“Get undressed,” you said, somewhere between a request and a demand, and he halted momentarily, a vulnerable look flashing across his face. “Please,” you added, finding the fastenings of his vest, “let me see you.”

He nodded, his hands covering yours as you started on his tie, gently guiding your movements until you could pull it from his collar and let it drop to the floor, where it was soon joined by his vest. Slowly, deliberately, you began undoing the buttons of his shirt, covering every inch of skin in kisses as it was revealed to you. A tremor ran through him as you pressed a kiss to his sternum before taking a step back, pushing his shirt open to expose the lean, elegant lines of his torso. 

“Gorgeous,” you breathed out, reveling in the sight of the corded muscles of his forearms, the map of silvery scars that adorned the left side of his body, the tributary of dark hair that began beneath his navel and disappeared into his waistband.

You circled him slowly, your hand anchored on his narrow waist, leaning up to whisper in his ear.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” you asked, inhaling the scent of spiced cologne and pomade mixed with the lingering cigar smoke that clung to his skin. “How perfect?”

He didn’t answer but you felt him shiver as you placed a tender kiss between his sharp shoulder blades, your hand slipping down into the front of his trousers. 

“Take these off for me,” you murmured, kissing the nape of his neck once before he acquiesced, shucking off the remainder of his clothes and turning to face you. 

Cupping your jaw in his hands, he kissed you slowly, licking into your mouth as the warmth of his skin seeped into you, stoking your burning need into an inferno.

“Silco,” you pleaded against his lips, arching into him.

“Say it again,” he commanded, walking you backwards toward his bed, lifting you onto the edge of the mattress and fitting a hand back between your legs.

You obliged, watching his face transform with something like wonder.

“Again,” he breathed against your mouth, his fingertips sliding through your slick heat as you shifted beneath him, desperate for more. “Keep saying it. Let me hear how my name sounds when you’re completely undone.”

You bit back a sob as one of his fingers sunk into you, his thumb drawing insistent circles against your clit.

“Silco–” you cried out, an incoherent mixture of curses and pleas falling from your lips as a second finger joined the first, beckoning at something deep within you. 

Kneeling beside the bed, he bowed his head between your thighs as if in prayer, his tongue replacing his thumb, licking at the most sensitive part of you as you clenched around him. His moans vibrated against your core as he devoured you, letting out soft sounds of need that seemed beyond his control to contain. When your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him even closer, his efforts intensified, each touch intent on making you fall apart for him. 

“Baby, please—” you gasped, the endearment earning a desperate groan from him, his gaze lifting up to meet yours. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—” you urged, a telling heat creeping up your chest as you felt yourself go taut. 

When you came with his name on your lips, he made a sound that was almost broken with need, working you through it slowly and methodically, pressing soft kisses to your aching flesh. Overwhelmed, you stifled a sob into the back of your hand, squeezing your eyes shut as tears began to well up. In an instant, he was there, wiping the salt from your skin with his thumbs, capturing your cries in his mouth.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured soothingly, “so perfect. The way you look when you fall apart for me…the sounds you make…the way you taste—” he broke off, bringing his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean of your arousal. 

“Fuck,” you whimpered, the ache between your legs already returning as you watched him, “come here, please—wanna feel you, all of you—”

Pushing yourself back to make room for him, you pulled him down beside you, gasping as he slotted his thigh between your legs, giving you something to grind down on as he kissed you.

“That’s right,” he murmured approvingly against your mouth, “take what you need, sweetheart.”

He pulled back slightly, groaning at the sight of you undulating against him, before looking back at you, a possessiveness in his gaze that made you tremble. His thigh flexed against your sensitive flesh and you whined, leaning into his touch as he cupped your face with one hand. The pad of his thumb traced your lower lip, and you opened for him instinctively, moaning as he pressed down on your tongue.

“Oh, good girl,” he praised softly, the words pulling a muffled whimper from deep within you as you ground your hips against him, seeking the friction you needed to ease the throb between your legs. 

It was too much and not enough all at once, the feeling of him everywhere but where you desired him most. Carefully, you shifted your positions so that you were straddling him as he pushed himself back against the pillows. As he pulled his thumb from between your lips, you caught his wrist, pressing a tender kiss to his palm before pinning both his wrists over his head. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, shifting beneath you as you bent down to kiss him.

“Taking what I need,” you whispered in response, sinking down onto him inch by inch, so full of him it forced the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, throwing his head back, exposing the column of his throat as you began to move. “Gods, you feel perfect. Like you were fucking made for me—”

“I was,” you murmured, slowly circling your hips down as you pressed open-mouthed kisses along his sharp jawline. 

He arched up into you, breathing out your name with a reverence that made your heart stutter.

“Let me touch you,” he begged, whining in protest when you shook your head and adding, “ please—”

“Not yet,” you told him, “I want you like this a while longer. You look so fucking perfect like this,” you continued, and though he let out a frustrated curse, he relented, his hands unclenching from where you had bound them over his head. 

You slowed your movements, watching as he surrendered to you, a beautiful flush rising in his chest. His lips were kiss-swollen and indented where he had worried at them with his teeth, errant locks of dark hair falling across his forehead, every shred of his usual composure gone. In its place was Silco as only you would ever see him, completely and utterly wrecked, gazing up at you with unabashed devotion.

“So good for me,” you praised, delighting in the shiver that ran through him at your words. “Making me feel so fucking good—”

He let out a sharp exhalation, straining against you once more.

“I can make it even better for you,” he gasped, “just let me touch you, I’ll make it so fucking good for you, please— please let me touch you—”

Your resolve crumbled. 

“Yes,” you breathed, relinquishing your hold on him, “touch me—”

He complied without a moment’s hesitation, one hand reaching for the place where your bodies met, the other curling around your hip, both working in tandem to bring you closer to the edge.

“Silco, Silco, Silco,” you whimpered, any semblance of coherent speech now gone, his name the only word you could conjure. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, his brow furrowed intently, focused entirely on your pleasure, “just like that. Let go for me.”

With one last cry of his name, you did. Trembling, you grabbed his hand as he slowly withdrew it from between your thighs, interlacing your fingers with his as he sought his own release. When he came, your name a broken plea on his lips, you brought his knuckles to your mouth, softly kissing each one before bending down to rest your forehead against his. You stayed there a moment, listening as his breathing slowed before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips and whispering,

“Yours.”

You felt his mouth curve into a small smile as he repeated the word back to you.

“Yours.”

[saphiccarma]

- The Red Means I Love You

Relationships - Mob Boss!WandaNat x Reader

Summary - An auction is going down, one you're forced to attend as strictly a bodyguard, and unsprisingly you finally meet Agatha.

Warnings: Strap warming, mean Natasha, orgasm denial, violence, potential death.

Pt.1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt.5

Natasha's arms were boxing you in on either side, her chin resting on your shoulder as she shifted her hips, lifting them up. A small gasp leaves your lips as the strap presses up and further into your dripping cunt. Your stomach is coiled tight, each little movement sending an uncontrollable jolt of pleasure.

You wanted so desperately to move, to bounce up and down until you got your release. But Natasha wouldn't let you, the weight on your shoulder was a reminder enough even as you whined in hopes she would give in. Of course she didn't, based on the click of her tongue.

It had been at least an hour since you started sitting on the strap, coming in all desperate and needy to get some relief before the big auction later. For a moment you thought she would fuck you rough and hard against the desk after you dropped the strap into her lap.

Natasha had stood up, sliding it over her pants and tightening the harnesses so it rested firmly on her hips, but then she sat back down. And you were foolish to think maybe she would let you ride it, hope bubbling in your chest. Instead, she'd let you sink down on it, pull up with a moan, and sink down again before she held you there.

Her whispered words of, "I have work to do." Still echoed in your head with every little movement she made.

Even now, just inhaling was enough to make you feel every ridge of the strap, the way it was buried so deep inside you. Shifting your hips in an attempt to subtly gain at least a little ease to the ache between your legs. Your attempt didn't last long because Natasha's nails were digging sharply into your hip within the second. The sudden pain forces you to still, even though every part of you screams not to.

"Stay still," she hissed, "Then maybe I'll fuck you." The words were punctuated with a sharp nip to your neck.

A fresh jolt of heat is sent straight to your core, and you are certain her pants are soaked through with your arousal and desperation. You huff and in return bite down on her shoulder which elicits a sharp laugh and her hips snap up.

Core clenching, you yelp and jerk in her lap, a gush of fluids leaving your pussy. Her chest rumbles as she chuckles at your pathetic neediness, clearly amused by your struggles. Then she returns to her work like the little exchange hadn't happened.

It's infuriating to say the least.

For a while longer you try your hardest to say still, even as your pebbled nipples rub against her suit jacket whenever she shifts, and her strap moves inside you. Your walls clench painfully, searching for friction that has yet to come.

After several long, taunting moments, the door creaks open. You don't dare to look. You already know who it is anyways. Wanda lets out a low scoff, no doubt rolling her eyes as her heels click on the floor, stopping in front of the desk.

"Natalia," her voice takes on a chiding tone, one that lets you know you're both in trouble, "She is supposed to be getting ready, and you need to change."

The other woman waves her hand, shrugging and the movement makes you gasp, hiding in her neck, "Alright." She pats your hip, "Off."

You whine softly, dread and annoyance filling you, but climb off. Arousal slides down your thighs, leaving them sticky and wet as you pout at Wanda. The redhead rolls her ass, taking a step closer to slap your ass lightly.

"Go get dressed milaya," There's a softness to her words that eases the ache in your core and the flames in your stomach, but also a dangerous undertone, "We have an auction to attend."

^________________^

Agatha was a complex woman, every piece of her hidden by carefully constructed walls. Those walls were concealed by a delicate blue suit and sharp cheekbones, sharp enough to cut through stone, much like her eyes that were a striking blue.

Her slender fingers were curled around the stem of a wine glass, taking small sips as she leaned back in her chair, legs crossed. There's a row of black seats, each one in perfect shape for the guests that line them - dangerous people who have so much power just beneath their fingertips.

An auction, powerful weapons being sold to even more powerful people, is occurring right under the noses of government officials. They don't know better, they never will, not when these auctions are organized by bright minds.

You stand next to your girlfriends to your right, both looking deceptively innocent. But you can see the subtle curves of Natasha's muscles through her jacket and the way Wanda's eyes flicker around the large room. To your left is Agatha Harkness and her pet, also your tormentor, Lady Death. She keeps on staring at you, brown eyes sparkling with interest, occasionally she'll lean over and whisper something in Agatha's ear.

Natasha twirls her bidding paddle between her fingers, manspread in her chair as a gun rests blatantly on her hip. There's no hiding weapons in this room, some, like Rio, are playing with their knives. Others in the back are taking the moment to clean their guns.

You know the minute everyone leaves, they'll seem like innocent civilians who were going about their day, not people have murdered and robbed and done so much worse. It was astounding how you had grown used to it, the violence and blood. A year ago you would never have dreamed of it.

Cool fingers wrap around your wrist, and you startle, jerking your hand, but the grip is relentless. Agatha pulls you close, and you see your girlfriends look over but they don't react. They can't. Showing they care about you would paint you as a target, you have to remain as their bodyguard.

"You're a pretty little thing," she coos, hand sliding up your arm to grab the collar of your shirt and tug you down so that you're face to face, "How'd you end up with Romanoff and Maximoff?"

You clench your jaw as Rio leans over, flashing a smirk that's all teeth, pearly white, "Hey sweetheart."

Carefully, you think about your response. You know you have to answer with clearly thought-out words or else you risk giving Agatha leverage. The woman raises an eyebrow, silently prompting you to respond before she asks again.

"Natasha hired me," you say slowly, making sure your voice is measured and impassive, "I work for them."

She hums, unconvinced and tilts her head. Sharp blue eyes meet yours, a wall of guarded emotions hidden beneath, except hers are more carefully masked. The hardest part of this new life was adjusting to the lack of emotions you were expected to have.

But Agatha had mastered it, her expression an impassive mask with a few calculated emotions slipping through. But every single twitch on her face had a purpose. You weren't there yet; you probably never would be - becoming that reserved and cold-blooded.

"Is that all?" Her head tilts as she studies you, waiting for an answer. There's a cold glint in her eyes, accompanied by a sharp smirk that is tight lipped, different from Rio's wide grin.

"Yes."

"Harkness," Natasha's voice cuts through the moment and you can feel the disappointment radiating off her, "Vidal. Why are you distracting my guard?"

Agatha pats your cheek, releasing you but not without letting her fingers linger an extra moment on your jaw, sharp nails tracing the bone. You clear your throat, turning back to face the front and Natasha grabs the sleeve of your jacket, yanking you close.

Waving her hand, Agatha scoffs, "You are overreacting Natasha, we were just talking. I'm sure she's a good pet and still does her job."

Wanda eyes flash a dangerous shade of green and you know the warning signs of anger rising in her. It was hard to read either of your girlfriends, but you had learned, even though Wanda remained the more distant of the two.

"Mind your business Harkness." Honeyed sweetness coats her tone, but it does little to hide the disgust. The other woman rolls her eyes and leans back in her seat, "Y/N, would you do me a favor?"

You tilt your head, nodding slightly to indicate you were listening.

"Go get me a drink," She waves towards the bar in the back. The request has your brows furrowing, confusion flickering across your face for a small moment before you nod slightly, "Go ahead and treat yourself as well."

That's even odder, but you've learned not to question her and instead spin on your heel to do as you're told. The bar has only a few people sitting there, most already in their seats as they wait for the bidding to begin.

You order your drinks, crossing your arms and leaning on the counter. A gruff man sits your right, sipping a beer as he faces backwards so that he has a clear view of the rows of seats. A couple spots to your left is a woman with tattoos all along her arms and neck, a risky thing in this line of work. Any identifying features poses a risk.

A shot glass is slid in front of you, and you nod gratefully at the bartender. He offers you a tight smile, one you should've clocked as guilty, but you don't. Fingers curling around the glass, you tip the liquid back into your throat. It burns, but it's familiar and nice - soothing almost.

Another cup is passed to you, Wanda's drink and you carry it back to her. Your steps are slightly unsteady, but no one notices. The air is tense and sparked with hatred when you come back, a part of you itching to turn back around right then and there.

Agatha was leaning back in her seat, smirking, seemingly unbothered and Rio looked equally confident next to her. The two were a perfect pair.

Your girlfriends looked the same, without a smirk, but you could see past it. There was a subtle anger burning in Natasha's eyes and it was a miracle she hadn't punched Agatha in the face yet, but it was Wanda you were more scared of.

Natasha was the muscles. Even as lithe and small she was, she was vicious. She was the muscle, and you were her sword, a dangerous duo that crushed everyone in your way. While she was smart, way smarter than most people, Wanda was more so.

She was the mastermind of it all. This whole operation, everything Natasha had built was possible only because the two relied on each other. Both were strong women, but their individual strengths is what set them apart, made them different.

And that is why the sight of Wanda's clenched jaw, her nose scrunched just slightly as she clenched her hands in her lap scared you. There was something eerily calm about her posture that made alarm bells ring in your end. Nerves you hadn't felt since you first met her ring through you.

Hesitating slightly, you pass the cup to her, and she takes it surprisingly gently. You had no idea what had happened in the five minutes you were gone, but whatever did clearly set all the woman on guard. As you looked closer you could see the tightness in Agatha's shoulders.

Folding your hands in front of yourself, you set your gaze ahead, refusing to look at the brunette woman any more. The auction begins, with old weapons, a couple human body parts, and all sorts of oddities are sold. Natasha only raises her bidding paddle a few times, seemingly uninterested in the items that are on display.

Agatha on the other hand tries to buy everything. Well not really - she raises the price before dropping out, forcing other people to spend their money. Then the auctioneer brings out a new item, covered in a cloth that is tugged away.

It's a pristine dagger, black handle that would be invisible if not for the lights shining down. The blade itself is silver, sharp and shining. Despite its fresh appearance, it looks old, hand crafted with love and care and made for something other than to be sold at an auction.

The instant the auctioneer calls out a price, Natasha's paddle is raised.

"I have number 101 for 10,000 dollars! Do I have anyone for 11,000?" He speaks rapidly, microphone held close to his mouth.

Agatha's shoots her arm up, licking her lips as if she's already won the battle.

"11,000 for number 204! Do I get a 12,000?"

A few other people join the battle but drop out once the price gets too high. Only Natasha and Agatha refused to back down, eyes set straight ahead and jaws firm. It's a scary sight, the two powerful women competing for something that clearly has value.

Eventually the price is raised so high you're sure Natasha will back out. She was smart enough to understand a simple dagger was not enough for what the bid was, but surprisingly, it's Agatha who backs out. The woman lowers her paddle with a reluctant sigh and dramatic eyeroll.

You blink your eyes, getting heavier by the minute - something feels off. Not just with your body, which is growing increasingly harder to control by the minute, but the way Agatha backed down. A cocky smirk remained in place on her lips, and she had a glint in her eyes that made your skin tingle.

A finger snaps in front of your face, and you jolt to see Natasha staring at you with a raised eyebrow, "Go get the car."

There’s a glimmer of concern in her eyes, but she doesn’t dare show it in public. Especially not in front of Agatha.

You nod slowly, blinking rapidly to clear the spots from your vision and set off to do just that. Each step is a battle, your legs feeling as if they're weighed down by hundreds of rocks while you trek up the stairs. It should be a piece of cake, you weren't out of shape anymore, but despite that you still struggled.

Leaning on the door heavily, you catch your breath, letting your guard down. Then you push it open, staggering out in the cold night. Very few cars litter the road, so you take your time walking. It'll be fine, you repeat to yourself over and over.

You're probably just tired.

The cold makes your cheeks flush, and you wrap your jacket around your arms. Your skin feels tingly, a warm buzz running along it like a live wire. You ignore it, your brain foggy and scattered - not at all how it should be.

A hand wrapping around your bicep snaps you back to the present for a moment you twist around, swinging a wild punch. A taunting laugh echoes through the alleyway you were tugged into. Spinning around, your lips curl into a snarl.

"Who the fuck is there?" Your hand draws your gun, eyes glancing around warily. But the gun doesn't feel as light as it shoulder, instead weighing hundreds of pounds.

A tap on your shoulder, followed by a small cackle, "Oh darling don't you recognize my voice?"

Rio.

Your jaw clenches and you slip into a fighting stance, tucking your gun back into its holster. A gun would do you no good against Rio, she could disarm you too easily. Just as you try and figure out what to do, a hand clamps over mouth.

Trashing, you elbow her stomach. She grunts but doesn't you go, instead wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against you. Your body is so tired. It's unnatural how weak you are, how little you're able to fight back.

"Shh," she coos in your ear, "Don't fight it, just relax."

Then it hits you. Your drink. The bartender. He spiked your drink with something. Some slow acting drug and Agatha- Agatha had set him up for it, this was all part of her plan. That's why she let Natasha get the knife, because now she has you.

Something cool is pressed against your neck as Rio removes the hand from your mouth, "Well isn’t this familiar?" She teases, pressing the knife into your throat.

Your breathing quickens and you squirm, but not too much. One wrong move and you'll slit your own throat.

"Y'know, Agatha told me to just kill you," Rio drawls, tone casually as if she was talking about the weather, and your tongue is too heavy to respond, "Said it would be quicker, but honestly that's boring." The knife drags down your throat, blood following it as she trails in down your stomach to rest just above your abdomen, "I think it would be a lot more fun to see if your girlfriends can find you before you bleed out, don't you?"

You force your mouth to work, as hard as it is with how quickly you're losing consciousness, "They'll kill you."

A harsh cackle leaves her lips, taunting in your ear as you slur the words. You slump against her, the drugs finally kicking in and weakening you.

"They can try."

Slowly, she pushes the knife into your stomach, eliciting a sharp scream from you as you arch your back. It burns; worse than any physical pain you've ever felt. Blood drips from the wound and your knees buckle as you thrash, trying to escape. Rio holds you still as she takes her time pressing the blade into you.

Then, with a swift movement she yanks it out and steps back, letting you fall to the ground. A pained grunt leaves you, the wound bleeding at a rapid pace as you fall onto your back. The world spins around you and you recognize Rio blowing you a kiss before everything goes black.

Taglist: @macaroni676 @gaylorvader @ashadash0904 @sunshine-makes-flowers-grow @wolfangnight @rosekjsses @jessycatatiana @reginassweetheart @mmmmokdok

[ducktoo]

Getaway

Jo Yuri x M!Reader

Note: here’s to the hamster girl that got the big bag from the squid 🫶

It started with excitement. A group chat buzzing with memes about sunsets over the ocean, lists of must-try cruise activities, and an unhealthy number of debates over how many swimsuits one person actually needs. This was supposed to be the trip—five days of relaxation, laughter, and memories with your closest friends.

Then the excuses started rolling in.

First, it was Jihun. “Sorry, man, work’s piling up. I can’t take the time off.” His message was punctuated with a sad face emoji, as if that would soften the blow.

Next, Minji dropped out, claiming some vague “family emergency.” You tried to sympathize until you saw her Instagram story of her at a café with her dog, captioned Much-needed chill day.

By the time Seungmin admitted he “forgot” about his cousin’s wedding, you were already resigned to your fate. One by one, your friends bailed, leaving you holding the metaphorical bag—and the very literal cruise ticket.

Cancelling wasn’t an option. Non-refundable, non-exchangeable, non-everything, because you’d been too cheap to spring for the insurance. You’d planned for the luxury cabin, imagining yourself waking up to ocean views and feeling like royalty with your close friends. But with everyone else backing out, your budget evaporated faster than the group chat notifications.

Which led to this: you, booking a shared cabin with a stranger. It was either that or throw away the money you didn’t have to lose.

“You’ll be fine,” you told yourself as you stared at the confirmation email. “It’s just five days. How bad could it be?”

-

Yuri tugged the strap of her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, sighing as she handed over her cruise ticket at the check-in counter. She was supposed to be here with her family—her parents, her older sister—but life had a way of throwing curveballs.

Her sister had come down with the flu two days before the trip. Nothing too serious, but enough that her parents decided to stay home to take care of her. “You should still go,” her mother had insisted. “We already paid for your ticket. Think of it as a break.”

Yuri didn’t argue. A break sounded… necessary.

After Squid Game Season 2 aired, her world had been flipped upside down. Fame was exhilarating, sure, but it was also overwhelming. Endless interviews, promotional events, fans recognizing her on the street. It felt like she was constantly on, with no time to just breathe.

She’d thought about cancelling. Spending five days alone on a cruise ship wasn’t exactly her idea of fun. But her mother’s words lingered: You need a break, Yuri. Go.

So here she was, trying to convince herself that five days of ocean views and buffet dinners could somehow make her feel like herself again.

The only catch? She’d been bumped to a shared cabin because of a last-minute shuffle in bookings. “It’ll be fine,” the cruise rep had told her over the phone. “It’s just a roommate. You’ll hardly notice them.”

Yuri rolled her eyes at the memory. Hardly notice them?

Yeah, right.

If this was anything like her recent luck, her roommate would either be a chatterbox who didn’t know the meaning of personal space or some fan who wouldn’t stop asking about the show.

She stepped into the tiny cabin, already dreading the next five days.

-

The cruise ship looms large in the harbor, its pristine white exterior gleaming under the midday sun. You pause for a moment, clutching your duffel bag, letting the salty breeze wash over you. The idea of going on this cruise solo still feels surreal, but with all your friends bailing at the last minute, you weren’t about to let the ticket—and your deposit—go to waste.

The fact that you’d been downgraded to a shared cabin? Well, that was a bitter pill you were still swallowing.

Cabin 512A. The number taunts you as you make your way down the narrow, carpeted hallways.

The luggage wheels behind you squeak, the only sound in the otherwise quiet corridor. You grip the keycard tightly, your heart thumping faster than it should. Sharing a cabin with a stranger was bound to be awkward, but you’d convinced yourself it couldn’t be that bad.

The door beeps as you slide the keycard, and you step inside. It’s… snug. Two single beds crammed into a space that feels more like a walk-in closet with delusions of grandeur. One bed is already claimed, judging by the neatly folded hoodie and headphones resting on it.

You hear a faint sound—a soft hum—from the bathroom. Your brows knit together. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

The door creaks open before you can dwell on it further, and your new cabinmate steps out. She’s small, dressed in an oversized sweater and denim shorts, her hair casually tied up. For a moment, her gaze locks with yours, her eyes wide and questioning.

“UH…hi,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “You must be my roommate.”

You nod, but you’re not really listening. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to process what you’re seeing.

Jo Yuri.

Not just your cabinmate—Jo Yuri, the breakout star from Squid Game Season 2. You’d binge-watched the entire season when it came out a few months ago, captivated by her performance. She played one of the more appealing characters: the underdog who managed to power through the entirety of the season. People online had been calling her the “puppy of the season.”

And now, she’s standing in front of you, looking more ordinary than you ever thought possible. No makeup, no stylists, just a girl with messy hair and an easy smile.

“Uh… yeah,” you finally manage, trying to play it cool. “That’s me. Roommate. Hi.”

She chuckles, her smile widening. “You okay there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shake your head quickly, attempting to compose yourself. “No, no. It’s just… you look really familiar.”

Her expression shifts slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Ah,” she says, her tone light but guarded. “You’ve seen it?”

You don’t need her to elaborate. “Squid Game?” you ask, careful to keep your voice neutral.

“Yeah.” She shrugs, leaning casually against the wall. “That’d do it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you scramble to fill it. “You were great in it,” you blurt out, cringing internally at how fanboy-ish you sound. “Like, really great. One of the best parts of the season.”

Her lips quirk into a smile, but there’s a hint of weariness in it. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

You sense there’s more she’s not saying, but you don’t push. Instead, you gesture to your bed. “Uh, mind if I unpack?”

“Go for it,” she says, stepping aside.

The awkwardness lingers as you start unpacking, but you catch her glancing at you a couple of times, like she’s sizing you up. It’s weird—sharing a room with someone who’s been on your screen, who people have written essays and theories about online.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “So… what made you come on this cruise?”

You hesitate, debating how much to share. “Friends bailed,” you admit with a shrug. “Didn’t want to waste the ticket. What about you?”

She snorts, perching on the edge of her bed. “Needed a break. Too many people. Too much noise.”

“Isn’t that ironic?” you tease, surprising yourself with your boldness. “Considering, you know… you.”

Her laugh is light, genuine. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The conversation eases after that, flowing like a gentle current. You don’t mention Squid Game again, and she doesn’t bring it up either. Instead, you talk about the ship, the itinerary, and the overly enthusiastic cruise director you’d both spotted during boarding.

But in the back of your mind, you’re still reeling. Jo Yuri, in the flesh. And somehow, you’re supposed to survive five days of sharing a cabin with her without making a complete fool of yourself.

-

You’re still reeling from the whole “roommate with a stranger” situation when Yuri suggests exploring the ship. It feels like the right thing to do—anything to avoid sitting in the cabin together, surrounded by the thick air of awkward silence.

“Uh… sure,” you say, scratching the back of your neck. “Lead the way?”

Yuri raises an eyebrow at you, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “You’re really going to make me decide everything, huh?”

“No, no, I just—uh—thought maybe you… had a plan,” you mumble, stumbling over your words.

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite.”

You try, you really do, but relaxing is easier said than done when you’re walking shoulder to shoulder with someone like Jo Yuri. She’s effortlessly cool, with her confident stride and casual yet chic outfit that screams “I’m too cool for this, but I’m here anyway.” Meanwhile, you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves, overthinking every step and every word.

The first stop is the promenade deck. It’s lined with shops selling overpriced souvenirs, jewellery, and random knick-knacks you definitely don’t need.

“Look at this,” Yuri says, holding up a sparkly snow globe with a tiny replica of the ship inside. “A whole fifteen dollars for something that’s going to collect dust on a shelf.”

You laugh nervously, unsure if you’re supposed to agree or argue. “Yeah, it’s, uh… it’s definitely not worth it.”

She narrows her eyes at you, clearly catching on to your awkward vibe. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You blink, feeling your ears heat up. “I talk! I just… don’t want to say anything dumb.”

Yuri tilts her head, studying you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, she bursts out laughing. It’s not mocking—more like she finds your honesty refreshing. “You’re not as scary as you look.”

“I don’t look scary,” you protest, though your voice comes out weaker than you’d like.

“Mm, debatable,” she teases, nudging your arm.

You’re about to respond when the two of you pass by a small café on the deck. The smell of fresh pastries wafts out, and Yuri stops abruptly, sniffing the air like a cartoon character.

“Okay, we’re going in,” she declares.

Before you can protest, she grabs your wrist and pulls you inside. The café is cozy, with warm lighting and a display case full of pastries that look almost too good to eat. Yuri walks up to the counter, her eyes scanning the options with laser focus.

“Two croissants,” she says, turning to you. “And you’re paying.”

“What? Why?” you stammer, fumbling for your wallet.

“Because I’m cute and you’re trying to make a good first impression,” she says, deadpan, though her eyes twinkle with mischief.

You have no comeback for that, so you hand over the money and follow her to a small table by the window.

Yuri takes a bite of her croissant and lets out a satisfied hum. “Okay, I’ll admit it. This is worth the overpriced cruise food.”

You nibble on yours, trying to act casual. “Yeah, it’s, uh… not bad.”

After finishing your snacks, the two of you wander out onto the open deck. The sea stretches endlessly in every direction, the horizon blending seamlessly with the sky. The sound of waves and the salty breeze are oddly calming.

“So,” Yuri says, breaking the silence. “What’s the first thing you wanna do tomorrow?”

You glance at her, surprised she’s asking. “Uh… I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

She groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be polite!”

“Polite is boring,” she says with a smirk. “But fine. How about karaoke? I saw a lounge near the theatre earlier.”

You immediately feel a pit in your stomach. “Karaoke? Like… singing?”

“No, like interpretive dance,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Yes, singing. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie, though the thought of embarrassing yourself in front of her is already giving you secondhanded anxiety.

“Good,” she says, her grin widening. “Because I’m definitely dragging you tomorrow.”

-

You wake up to the sound of waves gently lapping against the ship and faint footsteps outside the cabin. It takes a moment for you to remember where you are—and who you’re sharing the space with.

Rolling over, you see Yuri still fast asleep, her face buried in the pillow and her hair a chaotic mess. It’s oddly endearing, watching her like this, but you quickly snap out of it before she wakes up and catches you staring.

Not wanting to linger in the tiny cabin, you freshen up quietly and head to the deck to catch the sunrise. You don’t expect Yuri to join you, but just as the horizon starts to blush with orange and pink, you hear her voice.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asks, leaning on the railing beside you, still in her oversized hoodie. Her hair is slightly more presentable now, but you notice a faint crease on her cheek from the pillow.

“Something like that,” you reply, offering her a small smile.

For a while, the two of you stand there in silence, the morning air crisp and salty. The awkwardness from yesterday lingers faintly, but it feels more like background noise now, drowned out by the tranquillity of the moment.

“I’m starving,” she finally says, breaking the quiet.

You laugh. “I think they’re serving breakfast already. Want to head down?”

She nods, and the two of you make your way to the dining hall. It’s bustling but not chaotic, and you manage to snag a table near the window. Yuri piles her plate with fruit, eggs, and enough toast to feed a small village.

“Do you always eat this much in the morning?” you tease, gesturing to her plate.

She narrows her eyes at you, mock offense dripping from her tone. “I’m stocking up for the day. Don’t judge me.”

You chuckle and take a bite of your food, the atmosphere between you two finally starting to loosen.

After breakfast, the day unfolds naturally. You both decide to explore the ship, starting with the pool deck. The sun is warm, the water glistening, and you’re surprised to find how easy it is to talk to Yuri now.

“I can’t believe how big this place is,” she says, spinning in place to take it all in.

“Yeah, it’s like a floating city,” you agree.

She grins at you. “Still down for the karaoke? I’m kind of amazing at karaoke.”

“Oh really? Amazing, huh?” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t believe me?” she challenges, her tone playful.

“Surely someone here among us is not a singer, huh.”

The two of you continue wandering, checking out the shops, the gym, and even a small art gallery tucked away on one of the lower decks. Yuri lingers in front of a painting of a ship caught in a storm, her expression thoughtful.

“What’s on your mind?” you ask, curious.

She shrugs but doesn’t look away from the painting. “I was just thinking… it’s crazy how people used to travel like this all the time, not knowing if they’d make it.”

“That’s kind of a downer,” you joke lightly, trying to break the mood.

She laughs softly and nudges your arm. “Sorry, I get weird sometimes. Let’s go find that karaoke bar.”

By the time evening rolls around, you’re both sitting in the lounge, sipping on mocktails with tiny umbrellas in them. Yuri sips hers thoughtfully, the sunset casting a golden glow over her face.

“I’m glad I didn’t cancel this trip,” she admits, almost to herself.

You glance at her, surprised. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

She shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s not so bad having a decent person to share it with.”

For a moment, you’re caught off guard, unsure how to respond. But then you see the way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, and you realize she’s being genuine.

“Yeah,” you say softly, feeling the awkward tension between you two finally dissolve. “It’s not so bad.”

As the night stretches on, the ship seems to come alive with laughter and music, and you and Yuri find yourselves in the karaoke bar after all. She picks an upbeat song you don’t know but belts it out like a pro, her confidence infectious.

When she finishes, breathless and laughing, you can’t help but clap louder than anyone else in the room. She bows dramatically, blowing you a playful kiss before hopping off the stage.

“Your turn,” she says, sliding into the seat next to you.

“Oh hell no…” you protest, shaking your head.

“Too bad,” she replies, grabbing your arm and dragging you up to the stage. “We’re doing a duet. Here's a private lesson with a professional.”

And just like that, day two ends with the two of you laughing so hard you can barely breathe, the awkwardness from yesterday now nothing more than a distant memory.

-

Day three begins with a comfortable silence between you and Yuri as you both sip your morning coffee on the balcony. By now, you’ve grown accustomed to her quirks: the way she furrows her brows when she’s deep in thought, how she adds a ridiculous amount of sugar to her coffee, and how she taps her nails rhythmically on the table when she’s bored.

“You’re staring,” Yuri says without looking up from her phone, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Am not,” you reply quickly, turning your gaze to the horizon. The sun is already high, and the shimmering ocean stretches endlessly.

After breakfast, the ship announces its arrival at a nearby island, and Yuri excitedly suggests signing up for the snorkelling excursion. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” she says, practically bouncing in place.

You agree, not entirely for the snorkelling but because her enthusiasm is contagious.

The excursion is a dream. The guides take you to a secluded reef with crystal-clear waters teeming with marine life. As you put on your gear and dive in, the world beneath the waves feels magical. Schools of vibrant fish dart around coral formations, and the water is so clear you can see every detail.

At one point, Yuri taps your shoulder underwater and gestures wildly to a sea turtle gliding gracefully past. You laugh—or at least try to, but it comes out as a muffled gurgle. Yuri seems to find this hilarious, and even with her snorkel on, you can tell she’s grinning.

When you resurface, she flicks water at you playfully. “Did you see how close it was?!”

“I did,” you reply, trying to shake the water out of your hair. “But you nearly scared it off with your flailing.”

“I was pointing, not flailing,” she retorts, sticking her tongue out.

The day ends with a quiet dinner back on the ship. You both opt for a small, cozy restaurant instead of the bustling buffet. Over plates of grilled seafood and pasta, Yuri shares more about her life—her dreams, her fears, and the little things that make her who she is.

“You know,” she says, twirling her fork absentmindedly, “I didn’t expect to actually enjoy this trip. I thought it’d be awkward sharing a room with a stranger, but… it’s been nice.”

Her words catch you off guard, but you nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, it has.”

By day four, you and Yuri have become a dynamic duo. It’s no longer just about sharing a cabin—it’s about sharing the entire experience.

The morning starts with a group yoga class on the deck. Yuri insists on trying it, claiming it’ll be “relaxing.” You’re skeptical, especially when you realize how uncoordinated you are compared to her.

“Downward dog,” the instructor calls out.

You glance at Yuri, who’s already in perfect form, her movements graceful and fluid. Meanwhile, you’re struggling not to topple over.

“Need help?” she whispers, barely holding back her laughter.

“I’m f-fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth, your arms trembling. Don't even mention the fact that your back cracks with every slight movement.

Suffice to say, Yuri had a lot of fun holding her laugh when glancing at you.

After yoga, the two of you grab smoothies from the ship’s café and spend the rest of the morning lounging by the pool. Yuri pulls out a book she brought along, while you scroll through your phone. Every so often, she nudges you with her foot, pointing out something funny in her book or making a sarcastic comment about the poolside drama happening around you.

In the afternoon, the ship hosts a trivia competition. Yuri’s eyes light up when she hears about it, and she drags you to the event.

“You’re good at trivia, right?” she asks.

“Uhh…Define ‘good,’” you reply, already regretting your life choices.

The game is chaotic, with questions ranging from history to pop culture. Yuri surprises you with her knowledge of obscure facts—she nails the question about 18th-century composers but completely blanks when asked about the capital of Switzerland.

“It’s Zurich, right?” she whispers to you.

“No, it’s Bern,” you reply, smirking.

She glares at you, whispering back, “If you’re wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Despite a few missteps, you manage to place second. Yuri proudly dons the sailor hat prize and refuses to take it off for the rest of the day.

That evening, you attend the ship’s formal dinner. Yuri, dressed in a sleek black dress, turns heads as she walks into the dining hall. You’re about to compliment her, but she beats you to it.

“You clean up nicely,” she says, eyeing your outfit.

“So do you,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

The night ends with the two of you sitting on the deck, watching the stars. The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the sound of waves and the occasional laughter of other passengers.

“This trip’s going to feel too short,” Yuri says softly, her gaze fixed on the sky.

You don’t respond immediately, unsure how to put your thoughts into words. Instead, you simply sit there, hoping the moment will stretch just a little longer.

-

The final day arrives with a bittersweet air. Breakfast feels quieter, and even Yuri’s usual sarcastic remarks are softer, almost hesitant.

“We should make the most of today,” she says, her voice determined but tinged with sadness.

And so, you do.

The two of you spend the morning doing all the things you hadn’t tried yet—arcade games, mini-golf, and even a cheesy photo booth where you both don silly props for the camera.

“Smile!” Yuri says, throwing her arm around your shoulder and holding up a fake moustache.

The resulting photo is ridiculous, but it’s one you know you’ll treasure.

In the afternoon, the ship docks at another island, and you both decide to go for a casual hike along the coast. The trail is quiet, with stunning views of the ocean. At one point, Yuri stops to take a photo, the wind catching her hair just right.

“Send me that one,” you say, pretending to be casual.

“Why? Planning to frame it?” she teases, but her cheeks turn pink.

The final evening arrives too soon. The ship hosts a farewell party, and the two of you join the crowd on the deck, dancing to live music. Yuri’s laughter is infectious as she spins you around, her energy lighting up the night.

And with the ship nears the port, reality sets in. The two of you return to your cabin to pack, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken words.

Finally, as you stand by the railing one last time, Yuri hands you a folded piece of paper.

“In case we don’t run into each other again,” she says, her voice quiet.

You unfold it to find her phone number.

“Yuri—”

“Don’t say anything cheesy,” she interrupts, though her smile is soft.

When the ship finally docks and you part ways, you can’t help but feel like this is only the beginning of something bigger. But for now, you're contented with the short getaway with your lucky cabinmate, already reminiscing about it as you look at her back slowly disappearing to the crowd.

And hopefully, she enjoyed your company as much as she enjoyed yours.

[mochii0park]

Don't speak; pjm - Amnesia; 01

Title: Don't speak

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: angst I fluff

Pairing: doctor!reader x businessman!jimin

Warning: So far none but second part will contain smut

Word count: 13.8k

Taglist: @haru-jimiin @maruuchann @graydolan12 @fancypeacepersona @jiminismine4ever @talgiminmin @ukndtwme @purplebeebs @wobblewobble822 @jjkluver7 @polnaraffsrack @santhimariyanbu @bangtan4lifetypeshit @lanyia

(for some reason some tag work some seem to not work?)

Songs to listen to: Wildflower (Billie Eilish), Number one girl (Rose), No sad song for my broken heart (K. Will), Love wins all (IU), My all (Mariah Carey), Hate you (Jungkook), Cindy lou who (Sabrina Carpenter)

Chapter list: ONE - TWO - THREE

Masterlist

The hospital at night transforms into a realm all its own; hushed yet vibrantly alive. The rhythmic beeping of monitors punctuates the air while the soft murmurs of nurses fill the dimly lit corridors. In the on-call room, you lie on the narrow bed, your body spread out but unable to find a comfortable position. Staring at the stained ceiling, sleep feels like a distant luxury, fleeting and just beyond your grasp. 

The ghost of the surgery you performed just hours earlier looms heavy in your mind—the intricate dance of sutures held taut, the charged atmosphere as you clamped a vessel, narrowly averting disaster at the last moment. You can still recall the fleeting panic when the patient’s heartbeat faltered, an alarming silence before the reassuring thrum of stabilization coursed back through the monitors. Even now, the phantom weight of the scalpel rests in your hand, the memory of urgent voices from the operating room echoing in your ears like a haunting lullaby.

You turn onto your side, then back again, as the stiff pillow offers little relief from the weight pressing against your chest. The air is a mix of antiseptic and dirty socks, while exhaustion clings to your bones with an intensity that feels overwhelming.  Despite your body's weariness, your mind races in relentless circles. In the operating room, there was a moment—a flicker of hesitation—when you thought of him, an unwelcome intrusion into your focus. 

Just as you begin to sink into sleep, your phone vibrates against the bedside table, shattering the silence of the night. Heart racing, you reach for it instinctively, glancing at the unknown number that flashes on the screen. “Dr. Y/L speaking,” you manage to say, your voice thick with fatigue yet clinging to a thread of professionalism. A pause stretches on the line, heavy with unspoken words.

 Then, a voice cuts through—deep, familiar. “It’s me, Y/N. Namjoon.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, a lifeline in a sea of memories. Namjoon. The golden boy of The Seoul Main Hospital, renowned neurosurgeon with hands so steady they could perform miracles. You remember those late-night coffees in the residents' lounge, the way you both argued playfully over patient charts as fatigue gnawed at your resolve. You would swap tired smiles at dawn after long, demanding surgeries, a bond forged in the fires of shared exhaustion. Once, he was a friend, a confidant. But that was two years ago— a different hospital, a different time, and a version of you that feels as distant as a fading photograph.

“Namjoon?” you echo, tasting his name, trying to ground yourself. “Why are you calling me?”

"I—" His voice falters, hesitant, each word seemingly laced with nervousness. He exhales sharply; the sound weighted with the kind of gravity that instantly raises the hairs on your arms. "I didn’t know if I should call you, but I figured you needed to hear it from me." a cold dread settled in your stomach. 

"Hear what?"

There’s a pause, heavy and deliberate

Namjoon's sigh feels like it carries the weight of the world with it. You can almost visualize him, pinching the bridge of his nose in that familiar gesture, a sign that something terrible is about to be revealed. "It’s Jimin. He was in an accident tonight."

Your heart stumbles, a lead weight dropping into the pit of your chest. Jimin's name lands like a devastating blow, stirring emotions you thought were long buried. It’s been a long time since you allowed his name to pass your lips, longer since you permitted yourself to dwell on it. The world outside blurs and tips sideways. You force yourself upright, fingers digging into the fabric of your scrubs as if that might anchor you.

“A bad one,” he continues, his voice taking on a softer tone, laden with what feels too much like sympathy. “Blunt force trauma to the head. He woke up... but he doesn’t remember the last five years.”

Five years.

Your mind races, scrambling to connect the dots, counting back through the years. Five years ago, you were still at Seoul Main Hospital, lost in the chaos of residency. Five years ago, you were still signing your name as Park Y/N—still tethered to him, still his wife. Five years ago, he still loved you with a fierceness that colored every moment you shared.

Your grip on the phone intensifies to the point where your knuckles whitening from the pressure. “What do you mean he doesn’t remember?”

It takes all in you not to cringe from the simplicity of the question, after all you are a doctor yourself, a surgeon nevertheless so you knew what memory loss meant but in such situation, you let the mundane side of you speak.

“He thinks it’s 2021.” Namjoon’s voice is careful, each word measured. “In his mind, you two just got married. He doesn’t remember the divorce. Doesn’t remember you leaving. The hospital, his friends— even himself, to some extent— are all fragments he’s struggling to piece together. But there’s one thing he’s certain about.”

You already know the answer before he says it, and still your chest tightens painfully when he does.

“You.”

A sharp breath escapes you, shaky and uneven. Your free hand rises, pressing against your forehead as if that might stop the flood of memories rushing in. The late-night drives with music too loud, the stolen kisses during shifts, the whispered promises that turned brittle and broke. The fights. The silence. The emptiness. You had buried it all— stitched yourself back together with time and distance.

But now?

Now, Jimin is waiting for you. Calling your name in a hospital room you swore you’d never set foot in again, a place that feels like a ghost haunting from the past.

Namjoon speaks again, his voice softer this time, as if to cushion the weight of his words. “I know this is a lot. I wouldn’t bring it up if it wasn’t necessary. But he’s struggling, Y/N. And right now, the only person who can make sense of this for him is you.”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “I don’t—” Your voice catches on the rawness in your throat. “I don’t know if I can do this, Namjoon.”

There’s a moment of silence and when he finally speaks, his tone is imbued with a gentleness that makes your chest ache all the more. “I get it. But I also know you. You’d never turn your back on someone who needs you, no matter how hard it is to face the past. And like it or not, Jimin needs you.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, but it does nothing to stop the burning behind them.

The call ends, but the silence left behind is deafening. The weight of Namjoon’s words settles into your bones, unraveling years of carefully built distance. Pulling you back to a time and place you swore you’d never return to.

Jimin doesn’t remember.

To him, you are still his wife.

You press the heels of your palms against your forehead, willing yourself to breathe, to think. But how can you, when the past has just clawed its way back into your life without warning? You should say no. You should stay here, in this hospital where no one calls you Miss Park. Where no one looks at you and sees only the action that led to your downfall. 

But Jimin needs you. And despite everything, despite the years and the pain and the reasons you left, you don’t know how to turn your back on him.

It takes a long time to come to terms with it, long enough that dawn begins to creep into the night, washing the world in pale blue light. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, the decision forming in the spaces between your breath.  Before you can change your mind, you grab your coat and keys, pushing the sane part of your brain as you make your way to the parking lot.

The drive to hospital is painfully familiar. Each turn, each street, each stoplight carries the ghosts of a life you abandoned. The café where you used to meet Jimin between shifts. The intersection where you once argued about something so trivial you can’t even remember it now, but you remember the way he pulled you close afterward, murmuring an apology against your temple.

With every mile, the ache grows heavier. By the time the hospital comes into view, it feels like it’s sitting in your throat, impossible to swallow. Seoul Main Hospital looms just as it always has—tall, pristine, a monument to both miracles and tragedies. You sit in the car for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, trying to steady yourself. But there’s no preparing for this, no way to brace against the flood of memories pressing in from all sides. Then, before you can convince yourself to turn around, you step out and walk through the entrance.

The scent of lavender hits you first—so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. The same nurses at the front desk, the same hum of machines, the same too-bright fluorescent lights. Time has moved forward, but Seoul Main hasn’t changed. And neither have the people.

You don’t make it far before you nearly collide with someone rounding the corner. Strong hands catch your arms, steadying you before you can stumble, and then—

“Y/N?”

Your heart drops.

Taemin.

Of all the people to run into, it had to be him.

His dark eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face before something softer takes its place. His mouth parts as he takes you in, two years apart condensed into a single-breathless moment. He looks almost the same. Sharp lines, composed stance, but there’s weariness there now, a carefulness in the way he regards you. 

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. Because Taemin isn’t just an old friend. He isn’t just your former coworker.

He was there.

He was with you that night, standing there as the world came undone. He saw it all. The moment you hesitated, the precise second the weight of it all crashed down on you. The moment you lost not only the battle, but your husband. Your career. The life you had built from the ground up.

And now, standing in front of him again, it feels like no time has passed at all.

“Y/N,” Taemin says again, softer this time. “You came.”

You swallow hard, barely nodding. “I… I heard about Jimin.”

His expression shifts to sympathy. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s… complicated.”

You huff out a bitter laugh. “It always is, isn’t it?”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The hospital buzzes around you, doctors and nurses moving past, conversations blending into background noise. But between you and Taemin, the past stretches, heavy and unspoken.

Then, finally, he sighs. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the elevators. “He’s been asking for you.”

And just like that, there’s no turning back.

The elevator ride to the third floor is silent, but the weight of it is deafening. Taemin stands beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat, his gaze forward, unreadable. You don’t ask questions, not yet. You’re still trying to steady yourself, still trying to make sense of the fact that you’re here at all.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a hallway much quieter than the rest of the hospital. You immediately notice the difference, no nurses rushing between rooms, no patients wheeling IV stands across the linoleum floors. It’s eerily still. Private. Of course it is. Jimin’s parents wouldn’t allow anything less.

As Taemin leads you forward, your eyes land on the small group gathered just outside a room. Namjoon stands among them, his voice low and tense, a worry etched deeply across his brow. Beside him, Mr. and Mrs. Park cling to each other, their faces drawn and weary, shadows of concern weighing heavily on their features. Yet it’s the woman slightly apart from them that causes your breath to catch in your throat.

She’s around your age, long blond hair, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, her hands wrung tightly in front of her. There’s an unmistakable sadness in her posture, the way her shoulders shake just slightly as Namjoon speaks. Taemin slows his steps, as if sensing the exact moment, you realize who she is.

 He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, before saying, carefully, “That’s Rose. Jimin’s girlfriend.”

The name hits harder than it should.

Rose.

Your fingers tighten around the straps of your bang, a thousand emotions colliding all at once. It’s not jealousy—no, it’s something messier, something you can’t quite name. You’re trying to understand her, this woman who loves the same man you do, the woman who is grieving him in a similar manner you had two years ago. She has every right to be here. More than you do, even. And yet, the moment your eyes settle on the way she wipes at her tears, the way Namjoon’s expression remains firm but gentle, something uneasy knots in your chest.

“He doesn’t remember her,” Taemin says quietly, as if reading your mind. “He only remembers you.”

You don’t know what to do with that.

Before you can even process it, Namjoon looks up and sees you. His lips part slightly, relief flickering across his face. Mr. and Mrs. Park turn next, their expressions unreadable, a mix of emotions so tangled you can’t decipher them. Then Rose looks up and everything stills.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, staring at each other across the distance, across the years neither of you shared but are now inexplicably tied to. Her eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, widen ever so slightly at the sight of you. Yet, there is no animosity in her gaze. No fury lies beneath the surface. Instead, you find an unexpected understanding, aa quiet sorrow.

She knows who you are. 

Of course she does.

And yet, none of them say anything at first. The air between you all is thick with grief, resentment, and lastly relief. His parents stand rigid and unreadable, their gazes flickering between you and the closed door. His mother’s lips are pressed together, her hands clutched in front of her as if she doesn’t know whether to reach for you or recoil. His father, ever the composed figure, only nods stiffly in acknowledgment.

It has been years since you last laid eyes on them since that fateful night when you signed the divorce papers, convinced that walking away was the antidote for both you and Jimin. You had hoped, perhaps naively, that he would find his path to happiness without you. Yet, here you stand, summoned back into a life you both loved and hated.

Finally, Namjoon sighs and glances toward the door. “We had to sedate him. When we tried to explain what happened these past five years, the divorce and all. He just wouldn’t accept it and completely lost it. We had no choice.”

You understood but you couldn’t help but feel sadness and pity for how it all went down. You prayed, as you drove to the hospital, that in a far lighter scenario he would just accept the current situation.  You steal a glance at his parents, searching for something—blame, sorrow, anger. But all you find is exhaustion, their shoulders drooping under the weight of the current events. Jimin’s mother finally speaks, her voice quiet but raw. “He keeps asking for you.”

There’s no accusation in her tone only an invitation, laced with the heartache of a mother witnessing her child suffer. Your love fell apart. Harsh words were spoken, one that tore the matrimony you once swore by. However, in the fractured corners of his mind, you are still the person he reaches for.

A sharp ache stabs at your chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. The hallway feels smaller, the walls pressing in. The past and present fold into each other, tangled and inescapable. A long time ago you had so much to tell them, beg for their forgiveness but now it all felt empty. Stretched and overdue. 

Finally, you exhale, forcing down the turmoil clawing at your ribs. “Take me to him.”

Just as Namjoon reaches for the door handle, a soft voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N.”

You freeze.

Jimin’s mother steps forward, her face carrying years of quiet strength, but now, it’s lined sorrw. A sorrow that is not just for her son, but for you too. Her lips tremble slightly as she looks at you, and when she reaches out, her fingers barely graze your arm, hesitant, unsure if she still has the right.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, “I know this isn’t easy for you. And I know… I know how things ended between you and Jimin. But you were my daughter once. And I never stopped—” She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together, shaking her head as if willing herself not to say more.

You stand there, awash in her words, unsure how to respond. Each syllable settles in your chest like stones, weighing you down into a part of yourself that had once ached to hear such affirmation. You had lost so much more than a husband; you had lost a family, a sense of belonging. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

And then there’s Jimin’s father.

He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t even properly looked at you except when you arrived. But you can feel it in the way his gaze remains fixed somewhere beyond you, as if acknowledging this whole charade would be too much. But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t dismiss you. And that, in itself, is enough to tell you that despite everything, despite the past, despite the divorce, he is grateful. Even if he will never say it.

You swallow against the lump in your throat and give Jimin’s mother a small nod before turning back to Namjoon. “Let’s go in.”

The door opens with a quiet creak, and the moment you step inside, the air shifts.

The room is dim, the soft glow of the heart monitor casting faint shadows against the white walls. It’s quiet, save for the steady rhythm of beeping machines and the slow, measured breaths of the man lying in the hospital bed.

Jimin.

For a moment, all you can do is stare.

He’s changed.

The last time you saw him, he had been drowning in anger, exhaustion present on his face, coldness in his eyes cutting you in half. Certain bitterness laced in every word he threw your way just to break you apart. He had been a man hardened by betrayal, by the weight of something that neither of you had been able to fix. His once short black hair has grown out, falling just past his ears, dyed a striking silver. The very color you had once told him would suit him. You don’t know if it’s a cruel coincidence or some distant echo of your past influence, but the sight of it makes something in your chest tighten.

He’s thinner, but not in the way that suggests neglect. His features are more refined, more mature, as if the years have shaped him into someone softer, calmer. He looks—

Healthy.

Happier.

Or at least, he had been. The thought makes your stomach twist. As you step closer, the slight movement stirs him. His brows knit together for a moment, and then, slowly, his eyelids flutter open. You barely have time to brace yourself before his gaze lands on you. And just like that, time stops. For a single breath, neither one of you move. You expect confusion. Uncertainty. Maybe even the remnants of sedation dulling his awareness but instead, what you see makes the air leave your lungs.

Love.

It’s clear, as bright as day, as if the last five years never happened. As if the last time he looked at you wasn’t with coldness and hate, but with the warmth of a man still deeply, undeniably in love with his wife. And it’s that, more than anything, makes your chest ache for the contrast is too much. The last picture of Jimin that nested itself in your mind, was of him turning his back and walking away with a lawyer hot at his tail, not even sparing you a second glance.

But now?

Now, he’s looking at you like you’re his world. Like he still belongs to you, and you to him.

Your hands tremble at your sides.

And all you can think is—

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

The moment Jimin’s gaze fully registers you, his entire face lights up, and a breathless, disbelieving laugh escapes him. His eyes sparkle as he laughs again, wet and shaky, before turning to Namjoon with something akin to relief, as if he had been drowning and was finally coming up for air.

“You see? You see, Namjoon?” His voice is hoarse, thick with tears that haven’t yet fallen. “I told you; you were crazy. You were all crazy! How could you even suggest that Y/N and I divorced? Look at her—” He turns back to you, drinking you in like a man who had been lost in the dark for years and had finally found his light. “She’s here. Standing right in front of me. Like an angel.”

The way he says it, with so much conviction, so much certainty, grows buds of sadness in your chest.  Jimin doesn’t know. 

Jimin doesn’t remember. 

You try to remind yourself when he blinks suddenly, as if something just occurred to him, his brows furrowing slightly. “But… why aren’t you wearing scrubs?” His fingers brush against the fabric of your coat, as if checking to see if his eyes are deceiving him. 

“Did you come from home? No, wait, that doesn’t make sense. You work late night shifts. Why would you? Wouldn’t you visit me soo—”

And before you can stop him, before you can pull away, he takes your hands in his, pressing them firmly between his palms as if to ground himself. The warmth of his skin sears through you, and then—

A kiss.

Soft. Reverent. Planted right on the top of your embraced hands.

You nearly recoil, but you can’t. You can’t.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Jimin murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, his lips still lingering against your skin. “I missed you.”

The storm inside you rages, but you force yourself to smile, to swallow down the nausea creeping up your throat. Because this isn’t about you. This is about him.

He rambles, his words tumbling out one after another, unstoppable, like a dam breaking. His love is overwhelming, suffocating, because it doesn’t belong here, not now, not anymore.

And then—

“How’s your residency going?”

The question slams into you like a freight train.

Residency.

Your mind reels, trying to piece together the timeline, trying to remember who you were five years ago, who you were when Jimin still loved you, when he still saw you as his wife. Because the truth is, you’re not a resident anymore. You’re a fellow now. But if you tell him that, if you let him realize how much time has passed, how much has changed, how much more will he break? So, you lie.

Or at least, you shape the truth. “The job is… going well,” you say carefully, forcing a small smile. 

Jimin hums in agreement, nodding sleepily, his grip on your hand loosening. “Yeah… I know. You’ll get through it, though. You’re brilliant. You always were.” His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he forces them open again, his body betraying his exhaustion. “I feel a little… out of it.”

You exhale, instinctively reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead. “That’s normal. You just had surgery. Sleep it off. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

Jimin sighs, content, as his eyes finally slip closed. And then, just as he’s teetering on the edge of unconsciousness—

“I love you.”

You stop breathing.

It takes everything in you not to yank your hand away, not to rip yourself from the room and run. You feel sick. You feel trapped. You feel wrong because Jimin isn’t saying those words to you, not really. He’s saying them to the ghost of who you were, the woman he still thinks you are.

You don’t say it back.

Instead, you wait until his breathing evens out, until the slow, steady beeping of the monitor tells you that he’s truly asleep, and then without a word you step away and leave the room.

The moment the door closes behind you, the weight of everything crashes into you all at once. The air is too thick, your chest too tight, and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

“What the hell am I doing?” The words spill out in a choked whisper before you even realize you’re speaking. You stagger back against the wall with your hands trembling and your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. “This… this was a mistake.”

Namjoon steps forward cautiously, his eyes laced with concern. “Y/N—”

“No.” You shake your head frantically, the panic rising and the nausea clawing its way up your throat. “What’s the point of this? What do you want from me? Am I supposed to just—just lie to him until he recovers? And then what? Watch as his entire world crumbles all over again?”

“Y/N—”

“And—and how the hell are we supposed to tell him about that night?” The memory is a gut punch, slicing through the panic with something even worse grief. “He doesn’t even know that, Namjoon. He thinks we’re still married. If he knew the truth—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, pressing your knuckles hard against your lips to keep yourself from sobbing.

Namjoon looks like he wants to say something, but for once, he doesn’t have an answer. Because there is no answer. There is no right way to fix this.

Taemin, silent until now, finally steps in, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Come with us,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “You need to sit down.”

You let them guide you away. Your legs are unsteady beneath you while your mind still spinning, still screaming at you to leave before you get sucked in too deep. Behind you, in the hallway, Jimin’s parents remain rooted in place. Mrs. Park clutches at her husband’s sleeve, her heavy breaths of worry, while Mr. Park stares at the floor, unmoving. Rose stands just beside them, her eyes red and puffy, but fixed firmly on you.

Because they all know. They all know that the only thing holding Jimin together right now, his only anchor in this storm is you.

And if you break…

He will too.

The walk to Namjoon’s office is silent, the weight of everything pressing down on you like a boulder strapped to your chest. Each step feels heavier than the last, your mind occupied with everything that just happened. Tlook in Jimin’s eyes, the way he said I love you, the way you couldn’t even breathe in that moment. You feel sick, hollow, like a stranger in your own body, but you keep walking, following Namjoon and Taemin as if on autopilot.

Once inside, Namjoon moves with practiced ease, filling the electric kettle on his desk and preparing tea. The office smells faintly of man’s cologne and old books, the same as it always did back when you worked here. It’s strange how nothing about this place has changed, yet everything about you has.

“Here,” Namjoon says softly, pressing a warm mug into your hands. He sits on the chair opposite of you, hands rummaging through a stack of papers on the desk between you. He fishes out a smaller bundle of papers, pushing the rest aside. Your eyes catch Jimin’s name, and it doesn’t take long for you to connect the dots. He was looking for his chart. You divert your stare to the tea as he begins to explain. 

“Jimin was out drinking,” he starts, running a tired hand through his hair. “It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but he was… out of it that night. More than usual. He got behind the wheel and crashed into a pole. Luckily no one else was hurt, but he hit the steering wheel hard enough to blank out on the spot.” He exhales, shaking his head. “He needed surgery, his lungs bruised; his pelvis broken but we thought his head was fine. The CT scans didn’t show any major trauma. So, when he woke up with amnesia… it was a shock. A huge one. What puzzles me is the way the amnesia presents itself.”

Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of his growing confusion as he tried to sort through the complexities of Jimin's amnesia. 

“It’s strange,” he said, glancing between you and Taemin, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “In most cases I��ve dealt with amnesia presents itself in similar pattern—patients either lose all their memories or they can’t recall the details surrounding the accident, or sometimes they struggle to store new memories entirely. But Jimin... it’s like he’s stuck in this limbo where just these five years are just... faded, while others remain.”

You skim the chart from afar. “You’re saying you don’t know if he’ll ever recover his memories?”

He shook his head, frustration bubbling under the surface. “It’s not typical retrograde amnesia. It’s…” He sighs. “I was going to explain, but I forgot—cardio surgeon or not, you’ve been under my supervision before. You probably already know.”

You nod slowly. You remember those long, exhausting nights during your residency, when you rotated under Namjoon’s department, learning about neurological cases even though your heart was always set on cardiothoracic surgery. You remember studying memory loss, trauma-induced dissociation, the way the mind protects itself in moments of deep distress.

“I know,” you murmur.

For a moment, Namjoon smiles, almost nostalgic. “Right. Back then, you used to be stuck to my side like glue. And then Kwon stole you.”

You let out a soft, breathless chuckle, the memory of your old mentor pulling you away from neurosurgery flashing in your mind. But it’s fleeting, disappearing the second Taemin shifts beside you.

“We should focus on Jimin,” he reminds.

Namjoon’s expression sobers as he nods. “Right. The best path to recovery—for now—is to let him live in the past. Physically, he needs time to heal, and mentally… we must be careful. If we overwhelm him, it could do more harm than good.”

Your stomach churns. “So, we just…. lie?”

Namjoon exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it sounds awful, but think about it, Y/N. Jimin values stability. If we tell him everything now about the divorce, about the past five years. I fear he’s going to spiral. He’s already been sedated once today because he couldn’t handle the truth. Do you really want to put him through that again?”

You don’t have an answer.

Because of course you don’t want to see Jimin suffer but this doesn’t feel right either.

Jimin has always valued honesty, even in the worst possible moments. He never liked sugarcoated words or half-truths. He would rather face the brutal reality than be protected by a lie. If he knew what the three of you were deciding right now… would he ever forgive you?

“I don’t think this is the right choice,” you say finally, voice quiet but firm. “Lying won’t get us anywhere. It’ll only hurt him more in the end.”

Taemin, who has been mostly silent, suddenly shakes his head. “I disagree.”

You turn to him, surprised. “Why?”

But he doesn’t answer. Not fully. He just looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face, before glancing away. Namjoon watches the exchange, then sighs. “For now, let’s just focus on what we can do. We need to make sure Jimin’s body recovers first. His memories… that’s something we’ll deal with later.”

You nod, even though unease lingers in your chest. This felt like a slippery slope, one mistake could create a domino effect that might of a greater scale than you three anticipated. You thought two years could easily be filled but now you struggle with one simple question that slips out. 

“Where is he staying?”

Namjoon hesitates, and it’s Taemin who answers.

“His apartment.”

Your throat tightens. “Our apartment?”

Taemin looks away. “No. He moved out. Last year.”

You stare at him, pulse pounding. “Then—”

“He moved in with Rose.”

The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you can’t breathe. He really moved on. You saw it a few minutes ago, or rather you saw her.  You knew that, had accepted it immediately or at least, you thought you had. But hearing it now, in this context, after the way he had looked at you just minutes ago, makes something inside of break.

Taemin shifts uncomfortably, as if realizing how much his words hurt you. “He… he was planning to sell the apartment. He told me he would. But I don’t know if he actually did.”

You barely know what to do with this information. It seems like it was Taemin’s mission for tonight to leave you speechless. 

Namjoon watches you carefully. “Y/N… can you do this?”

You don’t know but the worst part is, you don’t think you have a choice. You were a goner the moment he his lips laid a kiss on your touch starved body. You never even knew how much you’ve missed his gentle touch until you felt it, and now you were eager to prologue it. Like an addict. 

You take a deep breath and forces herself to come to terms with the situation. There is no other way. You already came, he saw you, the decision was already made, and you must see it through. As much as it twists your insides, lying to Jimin is the only way to ensure his recovery. Namjoon and Taemin stand beside you, unwavering in their support, and for a moment you feel a sliver of comfort in knowing you are not alone in this.

Together, the three of you return to Jimin’s parents. The tension still lingering in the air like an unspoken burden. Taemin brings up the apartment, cautiously testing the waters, and before anyone else can speak, Jimin’s father interjects.

“His old apartment?” Jimin's father frowned, his brow furrowed.

“Are you sure this is the right choice?” Jimin's mother asked, concern etched on her face. “What if it brings up things he isn’t ready to face?” Taemin locked eyes with her, resolute. “I promise we’ll take it slowly. We won’t push him past what he can handle. But I believe he needs this familiarity to help guide him back.”

Namjoon butts in adding a blanket of security to the sudden decision. “The familiarity of the old place could trigger something in him, jolt his memories.”

You notice Rose take a deep breath before she interjects. “About the apartment…” she said, her voice steady but soft, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I know Jimin hasn't sold it.” 

Jimin's mother looked at her, surprise flickering in her eyes. “He didn’t sell it? Why would he hold onto it after everything?”

Rose shrugged before continuing, her voice laced with mutual confusion. “Jimin had a change of heart at the last minute. He was supposed to tell me why that night… before the accident.”

Her words settle heavily between you all. It’s clear that even she is struggling to comprehend everything unfolding before her. She recognizes the silence as an offer to continue so she does giving more information. “He told me he gave the keys to Hoseok. I’ll ask him.”

The mention of Hoseok jolts something inside of you. The last time she saw him was at the funeral. He had stood beside you, quiet but present, offering you words of comfort that you never truly understood. You did the right thing, he had said. Your friendship had always been a strange one—good, but distant. 

“I’ll reach out to him,” you say, surprising even yourself.

Rose blinks clearly caught off guard. For a moment, there is nothing but silence between you before Rose simply nods. Namjoon feeling the tension growing with each question, suggests that Jimin’s parents and Rose head home for the night. They have been here all day, exhausted and overwhelmed. Reluctantly, they agree and begin making their way out, though you can sense their hesitation.

Once they leave, you turn to Namjoon. “I’ll talk to Hoseok in the morning. Right now, I need to go home and pack. If we’re going to do this, I need my things there.”

Taemin offers to help, but you decline, needing space to process everything alone. Namjoon, understanding, gently takes you hand, his touch warm and steady. “Thank you,” he murmurs, echoing the gratitude of Jimin’s parents.

As you step outside, ready to leave, you are startled to find Jimin’s father waiting by your car. You hesitate, expecting coldness or arrogance, but instead, he awkwardly thanks you. The words are strained but sincere. “I’ll call Chief Leeteuk tomorrow and arrange for your transfer back to Seoul Main Hospital,” he adds. “Until Jimin recovers.”

The weight of his words crashes over you. Only now do you fully grasp the scale of this situation, the immense disruption not just to your life but to the lives of so many others.

You shake your head. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe take time off work—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he cuts in. “You know this hospital inside and out. You can continue your work here.”

You want to argue, but you see the resolution in his eyes. Eventually, you sigh, nodding. “I’ll think about it.”

He hands you his business card. “Call this number when you decide.”

With that, they part ways, and you drive home with a mind drowned in thoughts.

When you reach the apartment, you pull out three large suitcases and begin to pack. There was no point in postponing the inevitable. The simple act of folding clothes and placing them into bags feels mechanical, almost numbing. At some point, you open a bottle of red wine, pouring yourself a glass to steady your nerves. Then, it dawns on you that you never informed her hospital of the sudden departure.

Grabbing your phone, you dial your best friend’s number.

“Y/N! What the hell happened? You just disappeared!”

“Something came up. A family matter. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.” It’s not a lie, not entirely, and explaining further requires energy you don’t have.

Wendy hums, suspicious but doesn’t press. “Well, good thing Yoongi covered for you. Took in your cases without a second thought.”

That catches you off guard. “He… did?”

It wasn’t surprising that Yoongi stepped in occasionally but for him to do on his own accord without refusal at first was strange. He seemed stand offish at times, opting to keep to himself for dealing with others was too much for him so he rarely took on other’s shifts or cases.

“Yeah. Honestly, I don’t know why you two never explored the waters.”, Wendy teases. “He’s totally your knight in shining armor.”

You sputter, face heating up. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, please.”

You and he shared an undeniable chemistry that others noticed right from the start of your fellowship. While you both excelled in different fields, you worked exceptionally well together when cases required collaboration, often finishing each other's sentences and actions. The two of you were described as a "twisted duo," a description you felt fit Yoongi far better than it fit you. However, Wendy insisted that you were unaware of how spookily well the telepathy between you and him worked. Hence the twisted duo name.

As Wendy continues to tease, you suddenly feel overwhelmed, thoughts spiraling back to Jimin. The contrast between past and present is suffocating. You offer her a poor excuse and hurriedly end the call, gulping down the rest of the wine.

You continue packing until your hands brush against a familiar box. You catch your breath, knowing exactly what’s inside before you even open it. Old photographs stare back at you. There’s Jimin smiling on your first date, pulling you close during your trip to Rome. There’s a picture of him at Hoseok’s wedding, so drunk that you barely managed to get him into the car afterward. That memory is one of your favorites; despite his intoxicated state, he was utterly smitten with you and the way you looked in that dress. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself all night, making you feel embarrassed when an elderly couple shot you a disapproving look. But all of that faded in comparison to his love confession when you helped him into the seat and buckled him up. At first, you ignored it, thinking it was just the alcohol talking, but he repeated it over and over, even going so far as to open the window and shout to the car next to you just how much in love he was.

Memories flood you all at once, raw and unbearable. You trace the images, fingers trembling. And then—you break.

Tears spill freely, chest heaving with sobs. Now when you are face with all of mess, with the cruel irony of Jimin’s memory loss, you realize just how deep the wounds still run.

As you cry and cry until you have no tears left to shed.

-

When morning comes, you wake up and immediately spring into action. Searching through your phone, you scan for Hoseok’s number. One of many you rarely dialed after the split. When your fingers land on his name, you press the call button, heart pounding as you wait. A few seconds later, a familiar voice answers, your name spoken in disbelief.

You greet him, albeit awkwardly. Two years have passed since you last spoke but there’s no point in skirting around the issue. “Have you heard about Jimin?” you ask.

Hoseok sighs. “I heard about the accident. Last time I checked with his parents, he was still in surgery. I wanted to call again, but…” he trails off before explaining that his twins have been sick, keeping him and his wife occupied. “I was planning to check in this morning.”

You pause at the mention of his children. Memories of Hoseok and his wife’s struggle to become parents resurface, and for a moment you forget why you even called. Regaining your focus, you congratulate him before quickly summarizing the situation.

Hoseok listens in silence before finally speaking. “And what’s the plan?”

You hesitate but tell him the truth about making Jimin live in the past until he fully recovers. To your surprise, Hoseok much like Taemin, agrees with the idea of you taking care of Jimin.

“You’re the only one who can do this,” he says simply. “I’ll leave the key at the front desk at hospital after I visit Jimin.”

You thank him, and the call ends. With a deep breath, you load your suitcases into the trunk of your car and then dial the number Jimin’s father gave you. He picks up in mere seconds.

“I’ll take the transfer,” you tell him, knowing there’s no point in resisting. Working at another hospital wouldn’t make sense under these circumstances.

His father sounds relieved. “I’ll handle all the paperwork and reach out to your chief.”

After thanking him, you drive to your hospital, needing to wrap up loose ends. As you pull up to the entrance, you spot Yoongi outside, cigarette in hand. He smirks at you and wordlessly offers a cigarette despite knowing you don’t smoke. It was a going on joke between you two. A mockery of your statement that “The fault in our stars” wasn’t as corny as Yoongi describes it. After that he never lets you live down the quote about the cigarette. 

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile. Yoongi still doesn’t ask why you weren’t there last night, instead giving you space to explain on your own terms. And so, taking a deep breath, you do. You tell him about Jimin’s accident, the amnesia, and the transfer. You half expect him to be upset, but he only nods in understanding.

Your relationship with Yoongi has been… complicated. It started a year ago, the result of one too many drinks after celebrating a successful surgery. Since then, you’ve kept things casual, just two people filling each other’s lonely nights. There were no expectations, no strings. However, when he agrees with Taemin and Namjoon, supporting this decision, you feel an unexpected pang of something you can’t quite place.

As you both step inside, Yoongi teases, “Maybe this is exactly what you need.”

You frown, trying to decipher his words but there’s no time to dwell. Almost immediately, nurse Layla rush toward you, handing you charts. Your mentee, San trails behind, listing off patients and conditions until you stop him.

“There’s been a change of plans,” you say, glancing at him. “I’m being transferred to Seoul Main for a while.”

San’s face falls. “But…. but I want to keep learning under you.”

You sigh, touched but resolute. “I’ll be back.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but there’s nothing more you can do. Handing him the charts, you instruct him to wait for Dr. Schuber’s call before heading toward the chief’s office. When you step into his office, Leeteuk’s on the phone, his usual stern features softened with amusement. His laughter echoes lightly before his tone shifts into something more serious. "I understand," he says into the receiver. "I’ll help as much as I can." His eyes lift to yours as he gestures for you to take a seat. You settle in waiting for him to finish.

When he finally hangs up, he leans back in his chair, eyes filled with something akin to sympathy. "I spoke with Mr. Park," he begins, "I heard what happened. I’m truly sorry about Jimin." He doesn’t linger on the subject, respecting the weight of it, and instead moves on, pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling something down. "The official reason for your transfer is the lack of fellows at Seoul Main. They’re understaffed, while here we have three people under each mentor. It makes sense."

You exhale, nodding. "Thank you, Chief. I won’t let you down. I’ll do my best at Seoul Main."

Leeteuk’s lips curl into a proud smile. "I expect nothing less."

A warm sensation spreads in your chest as you leave his office. The bittersweet feeling of leaving, of change, settles over you.

You make your way to the surgeons’ rest lounge, where you spot Wendy sprawled on one of the beds, her scrubs wrinkled from exhaustion as she focuses on a post-op chart. "General surgery is a pain in the ass," she groans the moment she spots you. "Should’ve been a dermatologist."

You chuckle, taking a seat beside her. "Rough night?"

"Try night from hell. Some teenager came in with severe abdominal pain. His parents were a nightmare, demanding every test possible. Turns out, the kid had something shoved up his ass but was too ashamed to admit it. Can you believe that?" She rubs her temple in frustration. "Yoongi tried to warn him that after surgery his parents would know – I mean who wouldn’t notice their child can’t sit on their ass – but the kid begged us to come up with a cover story."

You wince in secondhand embarrassment. "And this is exactly why I chose cardio."

Wendy snorts. "Please, like you don’t have weird cases. Didn’t you start in neuro before switching?"

You shrug. "At least no one’s shoving things into their brain or heart."

Wendy grins. "Tell that to the kid who inhaled a whole ass ball and had to have it surgically removed from his nasal cavity."

You shake your head with a laugh. "Still better than a sex toy in their ass." You pause, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Not gonna lie, trauma surgeons are saints. I could never stand there, get a CT done and see an object, clearly intended for pleasure, inserted where it shouldn’t be. And keep a straight face.”

You wanted to explain to Wendy that unlike other surgeons, any topic related to sex only made her laugh her ass off – pun fully intended. If you had to list any flaw of hers on the resume, that would be the top one, laughing during awkward moments. You could start listing of all the times that go her in trouble but then you’d be staying here until the next year.

Then, shifting gears, you exhale and tell her about your transfer, detailing everything that happened last night. Much like with Yoongi, you recount how Namjoon called, the accident, and then the part that makes you hesitate, Jimin has a girlfriend. 

“Y/N,” Wendy said, leaning in closer. “It’s understandable but you know it’s been two years, right? Life keeps going, even when we’re not ready for it. It’s only natural that he would have moved on.”

 “Yeah, I get that,” you replied, voice thick with frustration. 

Wendy studies you, a thoughtful expression on her face. “And what about you, Y/N? You’ve been hanging out with Yoongi a lot. I know you I turn a blind eye often, but you’re sleeping together. ” 

You roll your eyes knowing well enough how the situation between you two was vastly different. For starters no labels were used and heck you didn’t even know where Yoongi lived, most of the time you hung out at your apartment. “It’s not like that with Yoongi. We’ve just found comfort in each other’s company, nothing more.”  

 “Come on, don’t tell me knowing his dick size and meeting his brother is just keeping each other company” Wendy teased, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Okay so you knew the ins and outs of Doctor Yoongi, and perhaps you had the chance to meet his brother but, in your defense, it was a total coincidence. His brother had a mild heart attack and Yoongi ever so praising of your skills directed him to you so in conclusion you knew his brother as Mr. Min, your patient not as Yoongi’s older brother Yeon. 

“It’s just messy. Here I am, dealing with Jimin’s memories and feelings, and I can’t just ignore that. It feels wrong.”

 “Life is messy, sweetie,” Wendy said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “But you’re strong enough to figure it out. You just need time.”

 “I know I need time,” you sigh, staring down at the bed. “I’m just sorry for leaving my shift. I didn’t mean to abandon you.”

Wendy shrugged, a playful twinkle in her eye. “Please, don’t worry about it. Yoongi and I have your back. Trust me, we covered for you. Just take things easy, okay? You have enough on your plate without stressing about work.” 

“Thanks, Wendy,” you said, a small smile breaking through your worry. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Just as you were about to yap a bit more about the situation your phone buzzes. Namjoon’s name flashes on the screen. Jimin is waking up. You should be here. A wave of nerves rolls through you. You quickly type out a response, telling him you’re on your way.

Wendy watches you carefully. "So, are we postponing girls’ night?"

You nod. "Until this whole mess settles."

She smirks. "Figures. Just promise me you won’t take any shit from anyone at Seoul Main. You know how male-dominated the field surgery is."

You chuckle. "I was expecting a speech about Jimin."

Wendy shrugs. "Honestly I feel like my emotional capacity is reaching its limits. That little sucker used most of it and you got like 20%. Anyway, don’t forget about us while you’re there."

A lump forms in your throat at the thought of leaving again, of facing Jimin again. Wendy nudges you toward the door. "Go. I need sleep before I start hallucinating."

As you were about to leave the room you heart Wendy half-whisper. “If you see any hot dudes, be sure to send me their pictures.”

You chuckle, steeling yourself before heading out. 

When you arrive, Namjoon is waiting at the front desk standing beside a man you don’t recognize. As you approach, Namjoon greets you with a small smile. "Y/N, this is Dr. Kyungsoo, neurosurgeon. I asked him to consult on Jimin’s case."

Kyungsoo stands by your side, noticeably a head shorter than Namjoon. His short black hair frames his face neatly, and his plump lips give him a slightly prominent and inviting look. His big doe-like brown eyes seem to take in everything with a serious intensity, giving him a contemplative aura. However, as he greets you, a big smile breaks across his face, instantly softening his demeanor and making him appear much younger than the serious expression that lingered just moments before. 

You shake hands with him before Namjoon hands you a pager and a key card. "This will give you access to the third floor, where Jimin is, as well as the surgeons’ lounges. Only a handful of nurses know about Jimin’s condition." He hesitates for a second. "You’ll be happy to know that Jisoo is one of them."

A strange feeling twists in your gut. It reminds you too much of seeing Taemin again, Jisoo had been there that night. You school your features and nod, absorbing the information. Namjoon starts explaining the layout of the hospital, but you cut him off with a teasing grin. "I left two years ago, not twelve."

He chuckles. "Feels like twelve."

The three of you step into the elevator. As it ascends, Kyungsoo and Namjoon discuss the possible causes of Jimin’s amnesia. You listen but focus on steadying your nerves. When the doors open, a rush of déjà vu washes over you. Jimin’s parents are there, his father on the phone, his mother sitting beside Rose, their hands clasped tightly.

You greet them, but your gaze barely lingers on Rose. There’s an unspoken tension between you, a mutual uncertainty on how to act around each other. Namjoon introduces Kyungsoo to Jimin’s parents, giving you the perfect excuse to slip past them and into the room.

Jimin is standing by the window, watching the sky shift outside, the colors melding like the emotions swirling in his heart. There’s no television, no phone. Namjoon thought too much information at once might overwhelm him, but Jimin has one focus: you. When he turns and sees you, his face illuminates with an almost otherworldly smile, as if your presence alone brings warmth to a cold room. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, are now filled with deep adoration, crinkling at the edges as he stretches his arms out, eager to embrace you. 

Your heart clenches, a mix of longing and fear tightening within your chest. You step forward, surrendering to his pull into a hug that feels like home. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, a low sigh escaping his lips. "I could never get tired of your scent," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. 

You freeze for just a second.  If he notices your stillness, he doesn’t say anything; instead, he tightens his hold on you, as if afraid you might slip away. 

His breath mingles with yours, creating an intimate rhythm that seems to soothe the chaos within. "I was scared when I woke up and you weren’t here," he confesses, his voice trembling, vulnerable. 

You silently wish you could promise him everything would be okay. "It felt like my world was falling apart when Namjoon told me it’s 2026, not 2021. That we’re—" his voice breaks, fragile as his eyes shimmer, "divorced. That you left Seoul Main Hospital."

The words pierce through the vulnerability of the moment, leaving you breathless. Warm tears soak into your skin as Jimin pulls back slightly, his puffy red eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you feel as if he is looking straight into your soul. 

"Y/N, I—I don’t know how to do this without you," he says, each word laced with desperation and love that binds your heart in a vice. His weakness shatters something deep within you, the weight of it heavy and consuming. Logic tells you that the truth would be kinder in the long run, but looking into his tear-streaked face, filled with fear and longing, you realize in that moment you can’t tell him. Not yet. The love reflected in his gaze is a tether that keeps you from breaking apart entirely, and for now, you choose to hold onto the fragile warmth of this bittersweet reunion.

You and Jimin don't notice between your emotional exchange that the doors have opened and that Jimin's parents and Rose have entered the room, accompanied by Namjoon. The soft click of the door closing barely registers in your mind, too caught up in the warmth of Jimin’s embrace; in the way his body fits against yours like a puzzle piece that was never meant to be separated. It isn't until Namjoon clears his throat, a deliberate interruption, that your awareness sharpens. 

Your gaze flickers to Rose, who stands frozen near the door. Her expression is an unreadable mix of hurt and anger. You see the way she blinks rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears that threaten to spill. Guilt twists like a knife in your stomach. You shift, instinctively trying to create space between yourself and Jimin, but his fingers tighten around yours. The weight of his touch is grounding, but in this moment, it feels suffocating.

Jimin frowns at your movement. "Where are you going?" he asks, his voice laced with confusion. You hesitate, casting a glance at Namjoon before answering, "I just thought I’d stand with Namjoon and the others." The words sound weak even to your own ears.

Jimin’s frown deepens. "Why? You're my wife. You're supposed to be here, with me." His words land heavily in the room, unchallenged yet piercing. Rose stiffens before she abruptly turns on her heel and rushes out. The sound of her hurried steps echoes down the hallway. Jimin’s mother exhales softly, her gaze darting between her son and the door Rose just exited through. For a moment, she seems to contemplate following her, but then she looks at Jimin, at the desperation in his eyes as he holds onto you and stays.

Namjoon, sensing the growing tension in the room speaks up shifting the focus on him. "Jimin, we’re keeping you here for three more days before discharging you. After that, Y/N will take care of you at home." His words are measured, calm as if carefully weaving a delicate bridge between reality and the illusion Jimin still holds onto. Then he subtly nods at you, a silent prompt for you to begin adjusting Jimin to the truth of your present.

Jimin’s grip on your hand is unrelenting, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that should be comforting, but all you can focus on is the fire creeping up your spine, the overwhelming pressure of his expectations.

You gently take Jimin’s hand, placing a small mirror in his hands. As he gazes into it, a look of confusion flickers across his face, then deepens into disbelief as he sees his reflection. The familiar shape of his face remains, but the long, silver hair cascading down his shoulders is a stark reminder of the years that have slipped by. “Since… since when did I dye my hair?” he murmurs, running his fingers through the silken strands, as if trying to grasp the time that has passed.

You can see the wheels turning in his mind, the realization dawning on him. “Five years did pass by, Jimin. Namjoon was right, it’s 2026 now,” you explain, your voice tender. The mirror reflects more than just physical changes; it mirrors the essence of the man he was and the man he has become.  Jimin stirs his gaze to you staring at you intently, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to latch onto something solid amidst the whirlwind of news. 

"The president now is Yuk Seongu. I completed my residency a year ago," you continue, carefully choosing details that might make the reality easier to digest after the sudden shock.

For the short amount of time you were under Namjoon’s mentorship he highlighted the importance of stating the current president when assessing a patient for amnesia. Back then, and even now, you felt as if that question was misplaced. In midst of an emotional breakdown and coming to terms with years being stolen from you why would anyone care about politics?

Jimin processes your words, his brow furrowing. He hurriedly places the mirror onto the nightstand as if it burned him. "Is that why you weren’t wearing scrubs yesterday?" 

His question catches you off guard, but you recover quickly, nodding. "Yes, I’m currently a fellow under..." You trail off, glancing at Namjoon for help, and he promptly supplies, "Doctor Junseo."

You repeat the name, your gaze returning to Jimin, who seems lost in thought, his lips parted slightly as he tries to absorb everything. Everyone in the room expects him to ask something logical, something about the time gap, about his medical condition or about what happened. But when he finally speaks, his question catches you totally off guard.

"Where’s your ring?" His eyes drop to your bare fingers, the absence of the silver band suddenly feeling like an accusation. "Even when you were busy in your residency, you always wore it. You only ever took it off during surgery."

Silence falls over the room. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you wonder if everyone else can hear it. How do you even begin to answer that?

You try to recover from the question, but the words stick to the back of your throat. It had never occurred to you that Jimin would notice the absence of the ring and honestly it had never even occurred to you to put it on.

Jimin proposed to you on your fourth anniversary. At the time, you were only twenty-four, young and ambitious. Initially, you felt hesitant about marriage because your career required many sacrifices, and you worried that you would only hold him back. However, Jimin believed that everything was perfectly aligned, especially since you were doing your residency at his parents' hospital, where he worked in the finance department. 

You remember the excitement and joy you felt at the thought of calling him your fiancé, and eventually husband. Despite the challenges you faced and the uncertainties ahead, you accepted his proposal. You can still picture the moment he lifted you into the air, twirling you with pure happiness as you held his face in your hands. In that instant, time seemed to stop, marking one of your many victories.

The ring had been a family heirloom, passed down through generations of Park men. It was always given to the eldest son to propose to his prospective wife. Jimin hadn’t needed to plead for it; his grandmother had a soft spot for you. She admired your unwavering commitment to two things: your career and Jimin.

When your marriage fell apart and you both reached the heartbreaking conclusion that divorce was your only option, the ring became a painful reminder of everything you had lost. You had wanted to return it and give it back to him, but Jimin refused. His voice was filled with bitterness as he declared that the ring was tainted with misery, and he couldn’t bear to return it to his grandmother after failing her. You understood his anger, you had always understood Jimin. Deep down, however, you wished he could have set aside his pride just once to understand you in return.

Unfortunately, the weight of hatred and hurt was too great to overcome. So, you took the ring and locked it away at your family home, putting as much distance between you and it as possible. 

Standing before Jimin as he awaits an answer, you wonder how to explain all of that in just a few words. After a moment of silence, you explain, "I lost it once during a complicated surgery. I had to change into fresh scrubs after getting soaked with a patient’s blood, and I was rushed into another procedure immediately afterward. By the time the cleaning crew came through, it was misplaced. When we finally found it, I decided to leave it at home as a precaution." 

Jimin studies you carefully for a long moment before finally nodding. Then, in a gesture that feels achingly familiar, he lifts your hand and presses a lingering kiss to your palm. The warmth of his lips sends a wave of comfort through you.. He then asks, "Can we have some time alone?" 

Jimin’s father shifts uncomfortably, his posture rigid afraid that you might slip. Before he can voice any objections, Jimin’s mother intercedes, her voice soft yet firm. "Of course." With that, she gently ushers her husband out the door, with Namjoon trailing behind them. Once alone, Jimin watches you intently for a long moment before reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. "What more did I miss?" he asks.

You hesitate. "What do you mean?" 

"Your hair is longer and darker. You used to wear glasses during residency, but now you don’t. Did you switch to contacts or? Did you finally learn to parallel park?” His voice is light and teasing, but there's genuine curiosity beneath it. 

You exhale, adjusting to the way his touch still feels like second nature. "Mochi passed away four years ago. She lived with us towards the end of her life, and her favorite pastime was knocking glasses off the counter. You had to clean up way more than you liked." 

Jimin chuckles, a sad yet fond sound. "And your career?" 

"I tried neurosurgery, but..." You sigh. 

He smirks knowingly. "You never had the patience for it." 

You swat his arm playfully. "I could have if I had Namjoon’s mind of steel,” you smirk before softening, "I went into cardiothoracic instead." 

Jimin grins. "Good choice. You stole my heart; you better learn on how to take care of it." 

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. With him, it was always easy. Then, Jimin’s faces becomes letting you know that whatever he’s about to say has been bothering him for a while. "Namjoon told me I lost control of the car and hit a pole. He didn’t want to tell me, but Taemin let it slip that I was intoxicated. What happened that night?” 

You feel at loss for words. You don’t know the reasoning yourself and the only person who could cast some light on the situation probably would rather punch you in the face than help you. “I wish I could help you, but I am unsure myself.”

Jimin frowns looking to the side, silently playing with your fingers. Something he started doing absentmindedly whenever he was stressed. He stops for a second, still not looking at you as he speaks. “I was relieved that nobody was hurt but I can’t help but feel confused by my own actions. I know I would never drink and drive. It just doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem like me.”

He looks at you, his eyes a mirror to his emotions. He was fighting an internal battle which he kept to himself more so to not overwhelm you, sensing that you were already on the edge. 

Instead of further grilling for information he smiles and quickly changes the topic. "At least get me a TV. I’ll die of boredom." 

You felt like you can breathe again so you chuckle trying to mask the fear that lingered. "I’ll talk to Namjoon." 

A nurse knocks on the door. "Time for some tests." 

The nurse walked to Jimin's side, offering him a reassuring smile as she gently lifted his arm. You positioned yourself on the opposite side, carefully sliding your hands beneath him to provide additional support. Together, you lifted him into the wheelchair, ensuring he was comfortable before she starts wheeling him out.

As they were about to exit, he asks "Will I see you later?" 

You nod. "Of course."

You watch Jimin disappear down the hallway, a strange hollowness settles in your chest. This is going to be harder than you anticipated. Jimin has lost two years of which you know nothing about. As much as you want to help, you feel just as much an outsider to that time as he does. 

You wanted to dwell more on it but, the sharp beep of your pager shatters the silence. Front desk. You don’t waste a second, opting for the stairs over the elevator, your heart pounding from more than just exertion. The hospital is a world of cold, sterile air, and yet, as you rush through it, you feel like you’re suffocating.

At the front desk, a familiar figure stands. Jung Hoseok is dressed in a neatly pressed suit, though his tired eyes and slightly disheveled hair tell a different story. He looks older and worn out, as if the weight of sleepless nights has carved itself into his face. You notice how his hair is shorter than you remember, and how tiredness clings to him like a shadow, no doubt a result of his children’s relentless energy. 

He waves at you, offering a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Y/N," he greets, his voice tinged with fatigue as he hands you a set of keys. "How's the situation?" 

"The same," you reply, catching your breath, "We’ll see if he’ll remember more once we get to the apartment and visit some places." 

Hoseok nods, but then his expression turns serious. "Do you plan on telling him about you know?" His voice is quiet and cautious, as if saying the name might shatter something fragile in the air. 

A shiver runs down your spine as you shake your head. "No, there was no right moment. Honestly, I don’t know if there ever will be. It would just reopen old wounds. And right now… isn’t the time." 

Hoseok studies you for a moment before exhaling slowly. "Yeah, I get that. Is there anything I can do?"

You bite your lip, contemplating. "If you have time, could you help me fill in the gaps? I don’t know much about Jimin’s job after the divorce. It’s hard to navigate conversations when I have no idea what changed."

He agrees immediately. "Of course. I’ll drop by again tomorrow or the day after. I just need to check my schedule. I only saw him for a minute or two, the clients are ruthless. They keep pestering me as if I was the well of all information about the stock market."

His words offer some relief, but then he says something that throws you off balance. "I haven’t seen the apartment since Jimin gave me the keys. That was two months after the divorce." 

Your brows knit together in confusion. "I thought he moved in with Rose?"

Hoseok’s expression shifts when he realizes what you’re thinking. "Yes and no, he and Rose only started dating last year. He left the apartment because there was too much sadness there. He said he needed a change, so he rented a place near the company instead. He gave me the keys because Dae and I wanted to expand our family, but… I couldn’t live there. It was too tragic. Therefore, I never used it."

Rose’s words echo in your mind and before you can stop yourself you say it out loud, wanting to be certain. "He was planning on selling it, right?" 

Hoseok nods. "Yeah. He even found a buyer, but… they backed out." 

"Did he say why?" you ask, but he shakes his head. "No. He just said to keep the keys. No new owner, no reason to bring them back to the company." 

"Do you know what happened the night of the accident?" 

"No, no one does. His family doesn’t even know." Before you can explain further, movement catches your attention. 

You turn and freeze. 

Seonghwa.

The young resident stands a few feet away, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. The papers he was carrying slip from his grasp, fluttering to the floor in a scattered mess. You watch as realization dawns on him as he continues staring at you as though he is seeing a ghost.

Hoseok turns at the commotion, narrowing his gaze as he studies the younger man. There is something familiar in Seonghwa’s features, and you see the moment recognition flickers in Hoseok’s tired eyes. But before he can say anything, you are already moving, kneeling beside Seonghwa to gather the fallen papers with quiet urgency.

Although he stutters, he manages to greet you and Hoseok. Once the papers are collected, he looks at you and attempts to start a conversation, awkwardly asking how you have been. Like Seonghwa, you find yourself at a loss for how to navigate the moment, so you settle for small talk, giving him a polite smile. "I’m well. I hope you are too."

Hoseok, who has been observing quietly, suddenly pieces it together, the young resident from the that night. Recognition flashes in his eyes, but he says nothing, only checking his watch before turning to you. "We’ll talk later, Y/N. I’m already late for work.

You nod, clutching the keys in her hand. "Thanks again."

As he walks away, Seonghwa exhales slowly and shifts on his feet. "Namjoon told me I would be working under someone new," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… didn’t think it would be you." 

You blink at him, slightly taken aback. "Namjoon never mentioned this to me." 

Seonghwa nods, as if that makes perfect sense. You take a deep breath, adjusting to the reality of your new professional dynamic. "Well," you say, straightening up, "there are a few patients we need to check on. Let’s get to work." 

Sensing the awkward atmosphere lingering between you, you quickly assign him a task. "Check on each patient and inform me when you're done. I still need to change into my uniform and greet the chief." 

Seonghwa furrows his brows. "Greet the chief? Why?" 

You tilt your head. "It’s common courtesy to greet your boss." 

His lips twitch slightly. "You’ve already seen Namjoon." 

You stare at him, processing his words. "Wait… what?" 

"Namjoon became the chief just a little over a month ago."

Although perplexed at information that Namjoon decided to keep from you, you can’t help but feel a bit proud. “Then I guess we immediately go to work.”

Seonghwa smiles as he begins to scan through the list of patients. He explains their conditions, the procedures that were performed, and the potential checkups. As the two of you walk, you’re reminded of the old times when he used to trail behind you. However, instead of the nervous first-year resident who once cowered under your stern gaze, you now see a confident future cardiothoracic surgeon completing his final year of residency.

After a long day in the operating room, you find yourself transitioning from the upbeat environment of the hospital to the familiar weight of anticipation as you make your way to the car. The drive through the bustling streets of Seoul reflects your mixed emotions. 

As you step into the apartment you once shared with Jimin, the soft glow of the overhead lights illuminates the elegant surroundings. Located in an upscale neighborhood, the entrance welcomes you with its polished wooden floors and high ceilings that make the space feel both expansive and intimate.  

In the air lingers a faint floral scent, suggesting that someone has taken great care to maintain the place. You glance around, noticing the carefully arranged furniture that echoes memories of laughter and shared moments. The black sofa, draped with a soft throw blanket, still stands at its familiar angle, as if waiting for you to sink into it once more. 

You can’t help but smile. The same sofa has once sparked a playful disagreement between you and Jimin, who thought its color was too dark for a room designed to catch the morning sun. The large windows allow ample light to flood the space, creating a striking contrast with the sofa.

Setting down the three suitcases, you stroll through the living space, taking in the memories. It’s as if time has stood still; nothing has changed. A wave of nostalgia washes over you, mingling with an unsettling sense of estrangement, as the apartment feels like a memory frozen in time. What truly catches your eye are the photos of you and Jimin, still proudly hanging on the walls of the living room.

Taking an en route to the photos, you catch the lingering feeling of confusion wash over you slowly then all at once as you come near. The photos are in pristine condition, a contrast to what you last remember seeing them. The vision of Jimin lingers as he yells smashing each frame against floor. Shards of glass spread all over the floor. He stomps over it, further crumpling the photos. You trace the wooden frame, fingers stopping at your carved initials. 

Why did he put them back? The question floats in the air, and suddenly you feel like you’ll choke if continue searching for the answer. Instead, you proceed into the bedroom and the sight that greets you is a comforting one.

The bed is neatly made, and not much has changed. But as you stand there, you feel an overwhelming urge to explore further, to delve into the past. Yet, given the emotional roller coaster of the past two days, you pause feeling that venturing too deep might stir up memories best left undisturbed. Instead, you make your way downstairs to the kitchen hoping to find some semblance of normalcy in a cup of coffee. 

You recall that Jimin always kept basics stocked, and you hope he didn’t throw all out. As you reach for the cabinet above the sink where you used to keep the coffee, your movements feel almost instinctual, as if you haven’t lived in another apartment for two years. To your surprise, nestled beside the bag of coffee is a package of white tea, one of your favorites.

But it’s not just the tea that catches your eye. The cabinet seems to be a curated collection of your favorites. It is stocked up on all the items you once adored, from the German chocolate Riesen—Jimin would always tease you about your peculiar liking for them—to your beloved brand of coffee, and even the soy sauce you preferred for your ramen noodles. It’s as if the cabinet had become a small shrine to your favorite things.

As you stand there, staring at the familiar items placed in the cabinet, you feel a new wave of confusion washes over you.  You’re left wondering why he hadn’t removed them entirely. Was he holding onto these memories, or had he simply pushed them aside to avoid the hurt they might bring? The realization that living in this once-shared space might be too much for him sinks in, leaving you conflicted. Part of you wants to cherish these tokens of your past, while another part grapples with the understanding that he likely sought to create distance from reminders of you, leaving you uncertain about what to do with the unraveling emotions swirling inside.

Pushing the emotions aside, you decide to take a quick shower, hoping the warm water will wash away some of the tension that has built up throughout the day. Afterward, you sit down to make a list of things you need to buy for the apartment in order to transform it into a space in which you and Jimin had been supposedly living for the past five years. 

You jot down groceries, hygiene such as shampoos, razors and all the trivial essentials that make a home feel complete. But then you pause, a wave of realization washing over you. All Jimin’s clothes are at his apartment with Rose. You feel your emotional limit approaching as you wrestle with the idea of having to call her and ask for his things. It feels like too much, especially considering your last encounter. Though Jimin may currently see you as his wife due to his amnesia, you are painfully aware that you are, in reality, his ex-wife. 

You started to feel lost and uncertain about what to do next. It was ironic that as a surgeon, you often must make decisions so quickly that you rarely have time to think them through. Yet now, you were struggling to make even the simplest choice. In a moment of clarity, you decided it might be better to ask Hoseok or Namjoon to handle the situation, letting them do the heavy lifting while you figure out the rest.

You decide that tomorrow is a fresh start, hoping things might feel a little better. As you turn off the lights in the living room, the quiet envelops you, and it dawns on you just how tired you are. Climbing upstairs, you hesitate in front of the doors of the bedroom. It feels too soon to sleep there, so you opt for the guest room instead. 

As you settle onto the unfamiliar sheets, just as you feel yourself drifting off, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen to see a message from an unfamiliar number. 

Sweet dreams—don't let the bugs eat you and think of me. 

P.S. Namjoon finally gave my phone back. 

You stare at the ceiling for a while, the words piercing through the cozy haze of sleepiness. You know it's Jimin, yet confusion washes over you. Why would Namjoon hand Jimin his phone back? Did he go through it? Did he erase the photos of Jimin and Rose? The thought leaves you feeling unsettled, and frustration bubbles beneath the surface.

 It seems like everything is a tangled web of emotions, and you can't seem to catch a break. With a sigh, you grip your phone and type back, "Sweet dreams too," tacking on a heart emoji before switching off the screen entirely. Resting your head against the pillow, you let the silence absorb your thoughts, hoping for clarity in whatever tomorrow might bring.

[mischievousmoony]

Hiiii!!! i absolutely love your writing and i wonder if you wouldn’t mind writing a james potter x fem!reader thingy. Basically where she is out with some

friends that are absolute dicks and basically they ‘dare’ her to walk home in the dark alone whilst she is drunk and she agrees became se she just wants them to like her but she realises how much of an idiot she is and so she walks to James’ house where he comforts her and stuff.

if not don’t worry

love you!!!!

changed the prompt up a little hope it's okay lovie <3 i also made it a bit long for my definition of a drabble but thats ok hopefully u think the more words the merrier luv u

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢

⟢ pairing: james potter x fem!reader ⟢ summary: a cruel prank leaves you drunk and alone on the streets of london and you find safety at your boyfriend's flat ⊹ 2.3k ⟢ warnings: hurt/comfort, intoxication, social anxiety briefly mentioned, implications of how dangerous the situation was, for some reason i used this as an opportunity to practice writing imagery so sorry if it's too much

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The sharp, crisp wind nips at your skin as you walk down the shadowy, deserted London streets, the echo of your heels clicking against the pavement being the only sound that punctures the eerie silence.

A misty breath passes your lips and you hug yourself a little tighter, your hands making futile attempts at smoothing the goosebumps that dot your arms. You mentally curse yourself for listening to your "friends" when they said a jacket would ruin your outfit, wondering if this was their plan all along.

More tears fall as your mind wanders back to the friends you thought you were making and the bitter wind swiftly dries them against your cheeks, leaving your skin tacky with the salty residue.

What was supposed to be an opportunity to forge new friendships with some girls from your class took a devastating turn when they all crammed into a taxi without you, leaving you tipsy and stranded with their parting taunts ringing in your ears.

"Wait, we won't all fit," you had jabbered, the gravity of the situation not yet apparent to your drunk mind as you clumsily stumbled towards the car, your heel catching on a crack in the pavement.

One of the girls snickered as she wrenched the door of the black cab open, "That's a shame, innit?"

"I suppose you'll have to find another way home," another girl remarked, the others laughing along, barely bothering to suppress their amusement.

The carefree smile you sported faded from your face, feelings of dread and alarm creeping up your chest as you murmured, "My phone is dead, I won't be able to call a car."

"Sounds like you'll be walking home tonight," one of them sneered with a cruel edge.

"W-what?" you stammered, your chest rising and falling with a frantic rhythm as the sobering situation sinks in, "Walking back to my flat would take close to an hour."

The last girl to pile into the car— the one who originally extended the invitation to their night out with warmth and enthusiasm— looked up at you from her seat in the taxi with a mix of feigned sympathy and cruel delight. Her eyes gleamed with sly satisfaction as she leaned out of the car and took the door handle into her grasp.

"Well, then you better start," she declared, her tone punctuated by a mocking laugh and the slam of the car door.

You wish you could say that there was a sudden flip in their behavior the moment the taxi pulled up, but the abrasive way they conducted themselves around you all night should have had you running ages ago. But your naivety and desperation to make friends clouded your judgement, you supposing that it might simply take more than one night for the girls to warm up to you.

The sound of the car screeching away still rings in your ears as you brave the streets alone, trudging in the opposite direction of your flat. The hour walk to your home— more if you walked along the safest path you could think of— was too daunting on your mind. Your desperation to get off the streets steered you to your boyfriend's instead, his flat being half as far as yours.

If it weren't for the overwhelming unease you felt, you might have been too embarrassed to face James tonight. But your nervous edge was enough to send you hastily fleeing to his flat, it being well into the A.M., and you being alone— dressed in an outfit you were only comfortable wearing around a swarm of girls you thought had your back— and barely able to hold your own after medicating your social anxiety with a few too many cocktails.

When you finally arrive at the familiar stoop to James' place, you feel a wave of relief wash over you as you stagger up the stairs, leaning heavily on the iron railing for support.

Your knocking is incessant as you mutter pleas under your breath, desperately hoping James is sleeping lightly tonight. It feels like more time has passed than it actually has by the time the door creaks open.

James appears in the doorway, clearly just out of bed. His hair is tousled more than usual, stray strands sticking out unevenly over his forehead, and his clothes are wrinkled from tossing around in his sleep. He straightens out his glasses that lay crooked over the bridge of his nose as he processes your presence, his face a blend of sleepiness and alarm.

You utter his name weakly, a fragile quiver that reveals your vulnerability and distress. James' heart breaks at the sound and he wordlessly pulls you inside and envelopes his arms around you. You let him pull you in and your hands find the plush cotton of his jumper, gripping onto it like a lifeline.

James' mind races with worry, trying to piece together what could have happened to put you on his doorstep, tearful and distraught, in the middle of the night. He knows that you had gone out for some drinks at some bar downtown. He also knows that you weren't supposed to be alone and that you were supposed to take a taxi home— these being the answers to questions he asked earlier to ensure your safety.

The possibilities of what could have went wrong fill him with a profound sense of dread, and he tries not to let himself get carried away with the nightmares that swirl around in his mind.

Wrapped in his arms, you kick your heels off to the side somewhere. The shoes were killing you, and one more second in them and you might have collapsed into a heap on the floor.

James can feel you tremble against him when you settle, a result of the cold and lingering fear from being outside, inebriated and alone.

"You're freezing," he whispers, his voice hoarse from his recent slumber and edged with worry as his large hands come to rub your arms. He frowns at the iciness of your skin.

It's James' first instinct to break the embrace and tug at his collar, pulling the jumper from his own back to drape its warmth over you instead, leaving him only in his joggers that hang lazily from his hips.

The cotton is still warm with his body heat when it cocoons you and the scent of him on the fabric brings you comfort. You sniffle pathetically when you meet James' large, sorrowful eyes that brim with concern as your head pops free from the jumper's collar. He smoothes the fabric over your body quickly before his hands climb up to your face.

The pads of his thumbs sweep away stray tears as he cups your face, his fingers brushing softly along your jawline as he tilts your head to meet his troubled eyes.

"What happened?" he asks, notes of concern in his voice as his thumbs trace soothing shapes into your cheekbones.

An anguished whimper sounds in your throat and more tears begin to spill. You shake your head, unable to find your voice to explain.

"That's okay," he murmurs, pulling you back into his chest as he cradles your head in his hands, "It's okay, my love, I'm here. You're safe."

He coos tender words of comfort and reassurance in your ear, his voice steady and soothing. One hand lowers to gently rub your back until the tremors in your body gradually subside and you begin to feel a sense of security build back up.

James only pulls away when the rise and fall of your chest slows to a steady rhythm. Brown eyes meet yours and he offers a reassuring smile. He murmurs words of beckoning and leads you deeper into his flat. He doesn't take you far, just to his sofa so he can get you off your feet. You're thankful, the blisters from your heels becoming almost unbearable to stand on.

Your boyfriend sits first, gingerly pulling you down onto his lap, both craving your closeness and understanding just how much you need him right now. You curl up with your legs folded in front of you and your knees drawn close to your chest, your side pressed snugly against his torso. One of his arms wraps around your back for support, while the other rests casually over your legs, his large hand comfortably settling on the back of your thigh.

His head lulls forward until he can nuzzle into your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he softly prompts, "Think you can tell me what happened now?"

You sniffle once, letting your lungs fill with air before you stammer into a hesitant explanation. Still embarrassed over the whole ordeal, everything comes out in a small, quivering voice, starting with the awkward tension at the bar and ending with the way they laughed as they cruelly left you on the curb.

A whirlpool of emotions rages in James' chest. He doesn't understand how anyone could be unkind to his lovely girl, and he certainly doesn't understand how anyone could be so heinous to leave a person alone on the street like that.

James swallows hard, his next question living on the tip of his tongue until he has the strength to ask it. His tone is unwaveringly serious, low and intense in its level of concern, when he finally does.

"Baby, please tell me you walked straight here. No one gave you any trouble?"

"No," you shake your head, "no trouble."

James feels his whole body relax at your words, and a noise hitches in the back of his throat as he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. The overwhelming flood of relief and emotion threatens to bring him to tears, but he manages to hold them back. His eyes close briefly as he presses closer, his nose smooshing against the side of your head as he presses kisses behind your ear.

Your eyes flutter shut too as you allow James to cradle you in his arms. You think about how you almost tripped a few times, but you know that's not exactly what James is worrying about. Although, you can imagine he'd fuss over that too, checking your knees and palms for scuffs and kissing the skin there just because you could've hurt it.

As you feel the tension drain from his body beneath you, you think about how his fears mirrored your own.

"I was scared there would be," you admit in a small voice.

"I know my darling girl. I'm so sorry," he leans back, tilting his head to the side so he can meet your gaze. You don't miss how his eyes are glassy when they lock onto yours with calming intensity, "You're safe now, I've got you." He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there as he mumbles, "I'm sorry this happened."

"I thought I was making friends," you choke out, the words cracking with the weight of the betrayal.

James feels his heart break all over again.

"Those girls don't deserve to have you as friend."

"But I want friends. It was so easy in secondary school. I've always had you, and Lily, Sirius, Remus. Everyone."

James listens intently, his sympathetic eyes gazing upon yours once again.

"I'm all alone at uni. And I don't why nobody likes me," you finish in anguish.

James promptly moves his hand from your thigh to cup your cheek, "Listen to me. You're lovely, so lovely. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend, alright? You're going to find people who think so too."

"And you have me," he corrects. "You still have all of us. I know things are different now, and I bet you're missing having friends in your classes, yeah? But uni's only just started. You're gonna find your people."

"You think so?"

"I know so, lovely girl," he says, his thumb flicking the tip of your nose endearingly, "I was already a goner the first time I spoke to you. And if I remember correctly, you and Lily were thick as thieves after one day of knowing each other. Right?"

You hum affirmatively, remembering the first days of friendship with the people you now call family.

"See? You're good at making friends. It's 'cause you're amazing, anyone with a brain can see that. Those girls are just bloody idiots." James' features take on a sour look when he thinks about them, but with you in his arms, he can't sustain his irritation for long— especially not with you smiling prettily at his words.

"There's that smile," he mumbles fondly, and your giggle is music to his ears. You stay like that for a moment, trading smiles and tender caresses.

Eventually, James' expression shifts, his brow furrowing as he becomes stern.

"Next time you go out, I'm gonna pick you up. I don't care how late, I don't care who you're with. And I'm buying you a portable charger for that phone."

"Okay, Jamie," you agree softly, recognizing the firmness in his voice that leaves no room for argument, and finding it a bit endearing how fiercely he cares for you.

He relaxes again with a sigh. His hand, which still remains cupping your cheek, pulls you a fraction closer.

"I'm happy you're safe, love. I'm happy you came here." Each of his words is wrapped with sincerity and affection. "I love you," he says earnestly.

"I love you too," you whisper, the same depth of emotion laced in your words.

He guides you even closer, meeting you halfway with a tender kiss to your lips. It's a beautiful blend of sweetness and innocence, a soft brush of lips that envelopes you in a blanket of sweet serenity, making you forget what it was ever like to be scared.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[overheard-at-hogwarts]

Remus: So, how's life, Harry? Harry: Oh, you know. Chronic existential dread punctuated by moments of great fun. Can't complain.

[reveryfics]

Neighbors pt.2

Frank Castle "The Punisher" x Male Reader

Summary: It's been almost a year since Frank walked into your apartment, revealing his life as The Punisher. You'd settled into a demanding routine as an overnight ER nurse, navigating that world alongside your relationship with Frank. Little did you know, those two worlds were about to collide.

A/N: I got a couple comments asking for a second part to the Neighbors fic, uh I wasn't exactly sure what to do with this so hopefully this is okay. Male nurse reader as well, cause we all know Frank would end up dead without you.

TW: Blood - Broken arm - Injury - Comfort

The automatic doors of the emergency room shrieked open, a violent gust of air preceding a surge of hurried footsteps and the staccato bursts of clipped radio chatter. Two EMTs, their faces etched with grim urgency, propelled a gurney through the opening. The insistent, rhythmic beeping of a cardiac monitor sliced through the already buzzing chaos, an electronic heartbeat in the pandemonium. "Thirty-something male, found unresponsive at the scene, possible overdose," one of the EMTs barked, his voice barely cutting through the din.

Across the crowded bay, a different kind of drama unfolded. Another pair of EMTs struggled to transfer a screaming elderly woman onto a hospital bed, her cries of pain echoing off the unforgiving linoleum floors. A young resident, his face pale and drawn under the harsh fluorescent lights, scribbled furiously on a chart, barking orders to a harried-looking nurse whose movements were a study in controlled frenzy.

You navigated this swirling vortex of controlled pandemonium, your own adrenaline still thrumming from the relentless stream of patients that had flooded in since your shift began what felt like an eternity ago. Just moments before, you had finished meticulously suturing a nasty, jagged gash on a construction worker’s forearm, the thick smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. Then the call came in – a multi-car pile-up on the highway. Now, you were heading towards the trauma bay, a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach as you mentally braced yourself for whatever awaited.

The waiting room, visible through the smeared sliding glass doors, was a tableau of escalating anxiety. A young mother bounced a restless toddler on her knee, her eyes darting nervously towards the triage desk, a silent plea for information in their depths. An elderly man with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head sat hunched over in a plastic chair, his face a roadmap of worry lines. The air in the waiting room hung thick and heavy, a cloying mix of antiseptic and raw fear, punctuated by the occasional, frustrated sigh that spoke volumes of unspoken dread. They didn't see the frantic ballet unfolding behind those closed doors, the life-and-death decisions being made in split seconds, the raw, visceral energy of a system stretched to its breaking point.

It felt like just moments ago, you had managed to coax a distraught teenager out of a full-blown panic attack, her rapid, shallow breaths and racing pulse fueled by pure, unadulterated fear of a phantom heart attack. Before that, it was a belligerent drunk, swinging wildly at anyone who dared to approach, requiring every ounce of your patience and a gentle yet firm hand to finally gain his cooperation. Each case, each individual, demanded a different kind of focus, a different wellspring of emotional and physical energy, leaving you feeling like a tightly wound spring threatening to snap.

As you pushed through the heavy swinging doors into the trauma bay, the scene intensified, the air crackling with a raw, visceral energy that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. The trauma team was already a well-oiled machine, each member moving with practiced precision, their movements economical and purposeful. A quick, sweeping glance told you the grim story: multiple injuries, a shocking amount of blood staining the sterile white sheets, the urgent, rhythmic whirring of suction machines battling to keep airways clear. You took a deep, steadying breath, pushing the gnawing fatigue that tugged at the edges of your awareness. Another life, or perhaps multiple lives, hung precariously in the balance, and in this moment, amidst the chaos, that was the only thing that mattered.

But before you could fully immerse yourself in the unfolding trauma, a hand clamped down on your arm, pulling you away from the organized chaos. It was Sarah, a newer nurse whose usual cheerful demeanor was replaced by wide, panicked eyes. "Hey! Can you come take a look at Mr. Wilson in room three? He's refusing his IV, and he's getting really agitated. I can't seem to get anywhere with him."

You let out a silent sigh. You knew the car crash victims were in capable hands for the moment, the experienced trauma team already orchestrating their care with practiced efficiency. Reluctantly, you nodded. "Okay, Sarah, let's go."

You walked down the quieter hallway towards room three, the frantic energy of the trauma bay fading slightly with each step. As you approached the open doorway, the distinct sound of a raised voice reached you. An older man sat propped up in the hospital bed, his face flushed with anger as he argued vehemently with another nurse, who held a saline-filled syringe aloft, looking increasingly frustrated.

You recognized the patient instantly. Mr. Wilson. A local elderly gentleman who was a frequent visitor to the ER, his unmanaged diabetes often landing him back in a hospital bed. He looked in your direction, his eyes, usually twinkling with a mischievous glint, now narrowed with annoyance, watching as you approached the hand sanitizer dispenser and meticulously washed your hands before pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

"Oh, thank heavens you're here, Nurse," he huffed, his voice still carrying a note of indignation. "These youngsters don't got a clue what they're doing." He shot an accusatory glance at the two other nurses in the room.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly as you stepped closer to the bed. "They're doing their best, Mr. Wilson," you said gently, your tone calm and reassuring. You took the syringe from the other nurse. "Let's get this IV started, shall we?" Your practiced hands made quick work of locating a vein, the insertion smooth and efficient. Mr. Wilson barely flinched. "See? All done."

You shook your head slightly, turning around to grab his chart from the bedside table. "High blood sugar again?" You glanced over the recent lab results, noting the alarming number well over four hundred.

He waved a dismissive hand at you. "Nonsense, Nurse. I'll be right as rain, just like I always am."

You didn't respond immediately, taking a moment to ensure the IV was running smoothly before meeting his gaze. "I'll be back to check on you later, Mr. Wilson. Try to relax."

Hours bled into each other, the relentless tide of patients ebbing and flowing. Finally, as the first hint of dawn painted the sky outside the grimy windows, the ER began to quiet. You managed to steal a precious moment of respite in the cramped nurses' lounge.

Standing near the industrial-sized coffee maker, you pulled out your phone, a small beacon of normalcy in the chaotic day. A message from Frank, sent at the very beginning of your shift, greeted you. He often sent these little digital breadcrumbs – a silly meme, a brief update on his day, the occasional picture of him and your beloved pit bull, Frankie, their goofy faces a welcome distraction during your long, grueling hours. You tucked your phone back into your scrub pocket, the image of Frankie’s slobbery grin a momentary balm. You took the now-full coffee pitcher and poured yourself a much-needed cup, the rich aroma a small comfort.

You sank into a worn chair at one of the small, cluttered tables, barely managing a single, precious sip before the insistent buzz of your pager vibrated against your hip. With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet, the brief moment of peace shattered. You headed back out to the bustling nurses' station, managing a tired smile for your coworker who handed you a chart. Your smile instantly froze, your blood running cold as you saw the name scrawled across the top: "Castle, Frank."

Without a word, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you walked down the hall and into the designated exam room. The doctor was just hanging up a series of x-rays, the stark white images revealing the sharp break in Frank's arm. Another nurse was gently dabbing at a series of cuts and abrasions on his face and torso.

Frank's head snapped in your direction as the door creaked open, his eyes widening in surprise, then something akin to fear, as he registered the look on your face – a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a dawning anger. He watched, helpless, as the other nurse offered you a small, knowing smile and quietly slipped out of the room.

"You can't just leave me here with him," Frank pleaded, his voice laced with a theatrical desperation that didn't quite mask the underlying anxiety. "Common, babe." He groaned dramatically, leaning back against the pillows.

You didn't say a word, your mind still reeling. You simply set his chart down on the counter with a decisive thud and moved to the sink, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the cool metal as you meticulously washed your hands and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, your movements stiff and deliberate. You picked up where the previous nurse had left off, gently cleaning the numerous cuts across his face and abdomen, your touch perhaps a little less gentle than it usually was.

Frank hissed, biting his lip as you carefully cleaned around a particularly deep gash on his side, the edges raw and angry-looking. "Fancy seeing you here," he attempted a weak joke, but instantly stopped when your eyes, usually warm and full of affection, now glinted with a sharp, almost dangerous light as you briefly glared up at him.

You listened in stony silence as the doctor began explaining the next steps, his voice calm and professional. "Alright, Frank, we're going to have to set that bone before we can put a cast on it. Looks like a clean fracture, but it needs to be realigned." He gestured to the x-rays. "We'll give you some local anesthetic for these cuts, and then we'll get started on the arm."

The doctor excused himself to gather the necessary supplies, leaving you alone with a very uncomfortable and apologetic-looking Frank. You picked up a syringe from the medical tray, the needle glinting under the bright lights, stopping just before taking the cap off.

"I've had a real shit day so far," you finally rasped, your voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Do you have any idea what was going through my mind when I saw your name on that chart?" You didn't wait for an answer, your silence hanging heavy in the air.

Frank let out a long, weary sigh, wishing he had just listened to his gut and insisted they not contact you. "I'm sorry, trust me, baby, I didn't mean to worry you." He groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the examination table.

You finally took the cap off the syringe, your movements precise and efficient despite the turmoil churning within you. You swabbed the area around the deep laceration on Frank's side with a cold alcohol wipe. "It's gonna sting," you whispered, your voice barely audible, before carefully pushing the tip of the needle into various points around the wound, injecting the numbing solution. Your chest tightened almost imperceptibly as he occasionally hissed in pain, his free hand instinctively reaching out to grip the sleeve of your scrubs, his knuckles white.

With the local anesthetic administered, you began to meticulously stitch the wound, your movements quick and precise, years of training taking over despite the emotional turmoil. Each careful stitch pulled the edges of the laceration together, closing the angry red gash. Once finished, you applied a clean bandage over the area.

You stood up straight, disposing of the used needle and other medical supplies with a sharp, efficient clink into the biohazard bin. Your back was to Frank as you bent over the sink to wash your hands, the sound of running water filling the brief silence. You heard a low whistle from behind you, a familiar sound that couldn't help but tug the corner of your lips into a small, involuntary smile.

You turned around, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. "Incredibly unprofessional, Mr. Castle," you quipped, a hint of your usual playful tone finally breaking through the tension.

"Can't help that my nurse looks incredibly hot in his scrubs," Frank hummed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

You walked back over to the side of the bed, leaning down to press a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. Frank’s hand, no longer gripping the mattress, came to rest gently on the small of your back, pulling you a fraction closer as he returned the kiss. You quickly pulled away when the door creaked open again, the doctor returning with a tray of casting materials.

He simply shrugged, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "If kissing your boyfriend at work was illegal, half the staff here would be unemployed by now."

You couldn't help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking the tension. You walked around the bed to help the doctor, a familiar camaraderie settling between you as you assisted him in the procedure.

The doctor explained the process as he worked, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. You carefully stabilized Frank's arm above and below the fracture site as the doctor applied traction and expertly manipulated the bone back into alignment. Frank winced but remained relatively still, his gaze locked on yours. The sickening thunk of the bone resetting made you flinch, but relief washed over Frank’s face. The doctor then carefully wrapped Frank's arm in layers of padding and wet plaster, molding it into a supportive cast.

Once the cast was securely in place, the doctor gave Frank instructions on how to care for it and left the two of you alone again. You stayed behind in the quiet exam room with Frank, pulling a couple of warm blankets over him and double-checking that his IV was running smoothly. He watched your every move, his eyes soft and full of affection. Just as you were about to leave, his hand reached out, his fingers gently closing around your wrist.

You turned back, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his lips. "I'll take you home once my shift's over," you murmured against his mouth. "Just get some rest for now."

Frank kissed you back, his grip on your wrist loosening slightly. "I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion and perhaps a touch of lingering pain medication.

"I love you too," you replied softly, stroking his cheek. "But please, for the love of all that is holy, don't show up at my work again unless it's to bring me food." You managed a weak joke, and Frank chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that eased some of the tightness in your chest.

[mariacallous]

“Did they really decapitate babies?” my 14-year-old daughter asked me yesterday. She was pointing to a text message on her phone from a friend. “They’re saying they found Jewish babies killed, some burnt, some decapitated.” And I froze. Not because I didn’t know what to say—though in truth I didn’t know what to say—but because for a moment I forgot what century I was in. All of the assumptions I had made as a Jewish father, even one who had grown up, as I did, with the Holocaust just a few decades past, were suddenly no longer relevant. Had I adequately prepared her for the reality of Jewish death, what every shtetl child for centuries would have known intimately? Later in the day, she asked if, for safety’s sake, she should take off the necklace she loves that her grandparents had given her and that has her name written out in Hebrew script.

The attack by Hamas on Israeli civilians last Saturday broke something in me. I had always resisted victimhood. It felt abhorrent, self-pitying to me in a world that seemed far away from the Inquisition and Babi Yar—especially in the United States, where I live and where polls repeatedly tell me that Jews are more beloved than any other religious group. I wasn’t blind to anti-Semitism and the ways it had recently become deadlier, or to the existential dread that my family in Israel felt every time terrorists blew up a bus or café—it’s a story whose sorrows have punctuated my entire life. But I refused to embrace that ironically comforting mantra, “They will always want to kill us.” I hated what this tacitly expressed, that if they always want to kill us, then we owe them, the world, nothing. I deplore the occupation for both the misery it has inflicted on generations of Palestinians and the way it corrodes Israeli society; when settlers in the West Bank have been attacked, it has pained me, but I have also felt anger that they are even there. In short, I wasn’t locked into the worldview of my survivor grandparents and I felt superior for it.

But something in me did break. As I was driving on Tuesday, I heard a long interview on the BBC with Shir Golan, a 22-year-old woman who had survived the attack at the music festival where more than 250 people were killed, her voice sounding just like one of my young Israeli cousins. She described, barely able to catch her breath, how the shooting had started and how she’d begun to run. She’d found a wooded area and tried to hide. “I got really into the ground,” she said. “I put the bushes on me.” Covered with dirt and leaves, she’d waited. A group of terrorists had shown up and called for anyone hiding to come out. From her spot under the earth, she’d seen three young people, whom she called “children,” emerge. “I didn’t go out because I was scared. But there were three children next to me who got out. And then they shot them. One after one after one. And they fell down, and that I saw. I saw the children fall down. And all that I did was pray. I prayed to my god to save me.”

I pulled my car over because my own hands were shaking as I listened. She then described waiting, hidden in the dirt under bushes for hours, until she saw the terrorists begin to light the forest on fire. “I didn’t know what to do. Because if I’m staying there, I’m just burnt to death. But if I go out they are going to kill me.” She crawled over to where she saw dead bodies and lay on top of them, but the heat soon approached, so she found more bushes to hide in until she could run again. Burnt bodies were everywhere, and Shir looked for her friends but couldn’t find them, couldn’t even see the faces of those killed because they were so badly burned. “I felt like I was in hell.” She finally escaped in a car.

Her story flung me back to my grandparents’ stories. My grandmother hid in a hole for a year in the Polish countryside, also under dirt, also scared. My grandfather spent months in Majdanek, a death camp, and saw bodies pile up in exactly this way. Stories are still emerging of families burnt alive, of children forced to watch their parents killed before their eyes, of bodies desecrated. How was this taking place last Saturday?

But these stories aren’t what broke me. What did was the distance between what was happening in my head and what was happening outside of it. The people on “my side” are supposed to care about human suffering, whether it’s in the detention camps of Xinjiang or in Darfur. They are supposed to recognize the common humanity of people in need, that a child in distress is first a child in distress regardless of country or background. But I quickly saw that many of those on the left who I thought shared these values with me could see what had happened only through established categories of colonized and colonizer, evil Israeli and righteous Palestinian—templates made of concrete. The break was caused by this enormous disconnect. I was in a world of Jewish suffering that they couldn’t see because Jewish suffering simply didn’t fit anywhere for them.

The callousness was expressed in so many ways. There were those tweets that did not hide their disregard for Jewish life—“what did y’all think decolonization meant? vibes? papers? essays? Losers”—or the one that described the rampage as a “glorious thing to wake up to.” There was the statement by more than two dozen Harvard student groups asserting, in those first hours in which we saw children and women and old people massacred, that “the Israeli regime” was “entirely responsible for all unfolding violence.” And then there were the less explicit posts that nevertheless made clear through pseudo-intellectual word salads that Israel got what it deserved: “a near-century’s pulverized overtures toward ethnic realization, of groping for a medium of existential latitude—these things culminate in drastic actions in need of no apologia.” I hate to extrapolate from social media—it is a place that twists every utterance into a performance for others. But I also felt this callousness in the real world, in a Times Square celebratory protest promoted by the New York City chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, at which one speaker talked of supporting Palestinians using “any means necessary” to retake the land “from the river to the sea,” as a number of placards declared. There were silences as well. Institutions that had rushed to condemn the murder of George Floyd or Russia for attacking Ukraine were apparently confounded. I watched my phone to see whether friends would write to find out if my family was okay—and a few did, with genuine and thoughtful concern, but many did not.

I’m still trying to understand this feeling of abandonment. Is my own naivete to blame? Did I tip too far over into the side of universalism and forget the particularistic concerns to which I should have been attuned—the precarious state of my own tribe? Even as I write this, I don’t really want to believe that that’s true. If I can fault myself clearly for something, though, it’s not recognizing that the same ideological hardening I’d seen on the right in the past few years, the blind allegiances and contorted narratives even when reality was staring people in the face, has also happened, to a greater degree than I’d imagined, on the left, among the people whom I think of as my own. They couldn’t recognize a moral abomination when it was staring them in the face. They were so set in their categories that they couldn’t make a distinction between the Palestinian people and a genocidal cult that claimed to speak in that people’s name. And they couldn’t acknowledge hundreds and hundreds of senseless deaths because the people who were killed were Israelis and therefore the enemy.

As the days go on, the horrific details of what happened—those babies—seem to be registering more fully, if not on the ideological left, then at least among sensible liberals. But somehow I can’t shake the feeling of aloneness. Does it take murdered babies for you to recognize our humanity? I find myself thinking—a thought that feels alien to my own mind but also like the truth. Perhaps this is the Jewish condition, bracketed off for many decades and finally pulling me in.

When news broke of the Kishinev pogrom in 1903 that took 49 lives (compare that with the 1,200 we now know were killed on Saturday), it caused a sensation throughout the world. “Babes were literally torn to pieces by the frenzied and bloodthirsty mob,” The New York Times reported. “The local police made no attempt to check the reign of terror. At sunset the streets were piled with corpses and wounded. Those who could make their escape fled in terror, and the city is now practically deserted of Jews.” In response to that massacre, the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Eastern European Jews to the United States began in earnest; the call of Zionism as a solution also sounded clearly and widely for the first time.

In his famous poem about the massacre, “In the City of Slaughter,” the Hebrew writer Haim Naḥman Bialik lamented, even more than the death, the sense of helplessness (“The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending / Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal”), the men who watched in terror from their hiding places while women were raped and blood was spilled. I can’t say I know what will happen now that this helplessness has returned—if I’m honest, I also fear that Israel’s retaliation will go too far, that acting out of a place of victimhood, as right as it may feel, will cause the country to lose its mind. Innocent lives in Gaza have been and will be destroyed as a result, and competing victimhood is obviously not the way out of the conflict; it’s the reason that it is hopelessly stuck. But in this moment, before the destruction of Gaza grabs my attention and concern alongside fear for my relatives who have been called up to the army, I don’t want to forget how alone I felt as a Jew these past few days. I have a persistent, uncomfortable need now to have my people’s suffering be felt and seen. Otherwise, history is just an endless repetition. And that’s an additional tragedy that seems too much to bear.

[valkyriexo]

You get your period | Hyunjin

ᑉ³pairing; Hyunjin x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Sickfic, Smau, Comfort, Fluff,

ᑉ³warnings; Reader has their period, Mentions of blood

ᑉ³Authors Note; Edited ! Other members coming soon!

Part of the "He helps you when.." collection. Other members parts: Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Han | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin Part of the You get your period collection Other members parts: 𐙚Bangchan 𐙚Lee Know 𐙚 Hyunjin

The room was filled with chatter and laughter, the sound mingling with the soft music playing in the background. Colleagues and acquaintances moved about, their animated conversations punctuated by the clinking of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter. It was supposed to be a happy atmosphere, a chance to network and socialize, but to you, it felt like a suffocating few hours.

Despite the vibrant energy pulsating through the room, you felt isolated, trapped within the confines of your own discomfort. Each laugh felt like a dagger twisting in your gut, a painful reminder of the mask you were struggling to maintain. You plastered on a smile, nodding along to the conversations swirling around you, but inside, you were crumbling.

All you could focus on was the throbbing ache in your lower abdomen. Each wave of pain felt like a vice grip, threatening to squeeze the life out of you. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying to maintain a composed facade while feeling like a wreck inside.

As you excused yourself to the restroom for the umpteenth time, dread washed over you. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if you were dragging yourself through quicksand. The familiar hum of the air conditioning seemed to mock your discomfort, the cool breeze offering no respite from the inferno raging within your body.

The mirror revealed a nightmare: your once pristine dress was stained with crimson. The stains seemed to mock you, taunting you with their unwanted presence.

You were mortified, embarrassment and shame threatening to drown you. Your hands trembled as you frantically tried to salvage what was left of your dignity, dabbing futilely at the stubborn stains with damp paper towels. But with each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that this was a battle you could not win.

The weight of judgment hung heavy in the air, suffocating you with its silent condemnation. What would your coworkers think if they saw you like this? Would they whisper behind your back, doubting your competence and professionalism? The thought made your stomach churn with anxiety, a knot tightening in your chest.

Desperation clawed at you as you contemplated your next move. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you grappled with the impossible choice between suffering in silence or fleeing in disgrace.

Just as despair threatened to consume you, a familiar ping broke through the chaos of your thoughts. It was Hyunjin, your ever-reliable boyfriend, offering a lifeline in the form of a text message. Despite your protests, he insisted on coming to your rescue.

As you frantically tried to salvage what was left of your dignity in the restroom, a soft knock on the door startled you.

"Love, it's me," Hyunjin's voice called out, filled with concern.

With a mixture of relief and fear, you opened the door to find him standing there. With gentle reassurance, he wrapped you in his embrace, shielding you from the judging eyes of the world. Without a word, he handed you a neatly folded garment, a discreet smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Put this on," he said softly.

You glanced down at the garment in your hands and felt a surge of gratitude wash over you. It was a dark blazer, impeccably tailored and stylishly understated. With trembling fingers, you slipped it on, feeling its comforting weight settle over your shoulders. You noted with relief that it was long enough to cover the stains on your dress

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

Hyunjin simply smiled and took your hand in his, leading you out. 

As you reached the exit, he led you towards the waiting car, its sleek exterior a welcome sight amidst the hustle and bustle of the city streets. With a gentle touch, he opened the door for you, revealing the interior adorned with plush towels carefully arranged to protect the seat.

You offered him a grateful smile as you settled into the car, the soft fabric of the blazer providing a comforting cocoon against the outside world. Hyunjin closed the door behind you with a reassuring click.

Through the tinted windows, you watched as he engaged in conversation with another manager, his gestures animated and his expression earnest. Though you couldn't hear their words, you could sense the genuine concern in his voice as he explained your sudden departure, painting a picture of a devoted partner looking out for your well-being.

As the car pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the chaos of the event, you couldn't shake the feeling of mortification that chewed at your insides. The image of Hyunjin coming to your rescue, witnessing you at your most vulnerable, lingered in your mind like a haunting nightmare.

You tried to push the embarrassment aside, but it clung to you like a persistent shadow, refusing to be ignored. Despite Hyunjin's love and reassurance, you couldn't shake the nagging sense of inadequacy that tugged at your heartstrings.

As you arrived home, Hyunjin wasted no time in pampering you with the kind of tender care and affection that only he could provide. With a gentle touch, he led you to the bathroom, where a luxurious bubble bath awaited, steam rising invitingly from the surface.

You couldn't help but smile as you sank into the warm embrace of the water, feeling the tension melt away from your weary muscles. Hyunjin hovered nearby, a silent guardian angel, ready to tend to your every need.

As the warm water of the bubble bath enveloped you, Hyunjin gently applied a soothing face mask to your skin, his touch light and tender. The cool gel felt like a balm against your flushed cheeks, easing the tension that had settled in your muscles.

With practiced hands, Hyunjin began to massage the mask into your skin, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your forehead, cheeks, and chin. Each touch sent waves of relaxation cascading through your body, melting away the knots of tension that had formed during the long and trying day.

As he worked, his movements became more rhythmic, his touch alternating between gentle strokes and firm pressure points. With each pass, you felt the weight of the world lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of tranquility and calm.

But Hyunjin didn't stop there. With a soft smile, he moved his attention to your scalp, his fingers deftly massaging away the lingering remnants of your headache. The sensation was pure bliss, each stroke sending tingles of pleasure cascading down your spine.

You closed your eyes and let yourself be carried away by the gentle rhythm of his touch, allowing the stress and tension of the day to melt away into the warm embrace of the bath.

As the soothing scent of lavender filled the air, Hyunjin busied himself with preparing a tray of your favorite snacks, arranging them with care beside the bath. He selected strawberries, dipped in rich chocolate, knowing they were your weakness, along with a selection of delicate finger sandwiches and a glass of chilled sparkling water adorned with a slice of lemon.

He settled himself beside the bath, perched on a small stool, his gaze never leaving yours as he offered you a strawberry, coated in decadent chocolate. "Here, love," he said softly, his eyes warm with tenderness. "Let me feed you."

You accepted the treat with a grateful smile, savoring the sweetness of the chocolate as it melted on your tongue. With each delicate bite, Hyunjin's love enveloped you like a warm embrace, filling the room with a sense of intimacy and closeness that transcended words.

As you nibbled on the snacks, Hyunjin regaled you with tales of his day, his voice a soothing melody that washed over you like a gentle breeze. 

"I could paint you like this," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile spell of tranquility that enveloped the room. "I want to capture this moment, this image of you surrounded by warmth and light, so I can remember it forever."

You paused, your heart skipping a beat at his words. "Paint me?" you repeated, a hint of disbelief coloring your tone. "But... why would you want to remember this? It's been so mortifying."

Hyunjin's expression softened, his eyes filled with understanding. "Because even in moments of vulnerability, you are still the most beautiful person I've ever known," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity. "And I want to remember every part of you, even the moments that you may consider less than perfect."

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words, a rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. At that moment, you realized that Hyunjin's love for you transcended any momentary embarrassment or discomfort. He saw you for who you truly were, flaws and all, and loved you unconditionally.

With a soft smile, you nodded, a sense of warmth spreading through your chest. "Okay," you whispered, your voice filled with acceptance and gratitude. "Paint me." And as Hyunjin's pencil danced across the page, capturing the essence of your beauty with each stroke.

And as the evening wore on, you reveled in the simple pleasure of being cared for by the most romantic man you had ever known. With each passing moment, the weight of embarrassment and shame lifted from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment that could only be found in the arms of your beloved boyfriend Hyunjin.

ઇଓ M.LIST | Ko-Fi | Taglist | Thank you for your support ♡ | Consider leaving a comment, reblog or like ♡ | © 2024 Valkyriexo 

[queenshelby]

The Peaky Role (Part 33)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Age Gap, Best Friend's Dad, Pregnancy

Your & Cillian's POV

It was about 10 o'clock that night and the phone buzzed in your hand, Cillian's name flashing across the screen.

Something in the pit of your stomach told you this wasn't going to be a typical conversation, but then again, you knew that Nina had told him that she was pregnant, so perhaps he just needed to talk.

"Hey," you answered, your voice more cautious than usual, but still warm and welcoming.

"Hey," Cillian said, swallowing harshly, the tension in his voice palpable even through the phone. "So, uhm, you obviously know about Nina," he started, his words thin, stretched tight like a wire.

"Yeah, I do," you replied, holding your breath. "And listen, I couldn't tell you. I actually didn't know what to do and I am so glad she had called you," you began, leaning against the kitchen counter as you felt the weight of the conversation settle over you.

"I get that," he replied, his voice tight. "And I would have never expected you to betray her trust by telling me," Cillian responded, a heavy sigh punctuating his words. "But that's not why I called," he continued, his tone sharpening. "We need to talk about us."

Shock rippled through you. "Us? Now? With everything going on?"

"I know, but this...it can't continue. It's too complicated, especially now with everything that is going on," Cillian insisted, his voice low yet urgent.

"You can't mean that," you replied, feeling the heat rise as confusion claws at your chest.

"I do," he countered, the tension thickening as a knot twisted in your stomach, the reality of his words settling like lead. "I am sorry Y/N, but," he said as he rubbed the back of his neck, tension radiating off him. "Nina's pregnant, and Danielle is already suspicious. This changes everything, Y/N. It makes it more and more difficult for us," he declared, his voice trembling.

"Are you... suggesting we end it?" you asked as your voice dropped, barely a whisper, heart sinking.

"Yes," Cillian declared, his breath hitching as the words hung between you, heavy and suffocating.

"This isn't fair," you gripped the counter tighter, disbelief washing over you. "Fuck, Cillian!" you shook your head, anger bubbling, although you understood his reasoning.

"I know," he replied, frustration flickering in his deep blue eyes. "And I am sorry," he continued, his voice strained as he pinched the bridge of his nose, but you had been wondering about this too, so it was no surprise for you.

"No, it's fine. I do get it. I really do," you thus replied, your heart constricting. "You need to look after your family and I don't fit into the picture right now," you said, your voice softening. "It's too complicated and I agree," you understood before just a heavy silence filled the space, each heartbeat echoing your regret.

"So, what happens now?" you finally asked, dread curling deep in your chest.

His silence echoed. The weight of unspoken truths hung thick in the air.

"We just have to pretend that nothing ever happened between us," Cillian finally breathed, his voice strained.

The pulse of your heart quickened as his words settled.

"You can't seriously believe that will work for us," you countered, a slight chuckle escaping your lips despite the gravity of the moment.

"It's the only way," he said, eyes resolute and you knew that he was right.

"I know, but it is going to be difficult Cillian. We tried this before," you murmured, rubbing your temples as frustration simmered beneath the surface.

"I know," Cillian agreed, his gaze firm yet weighted. "But it's for the best, Y/N. Nina needs stability right now and I need to give it to her," he added, his expression darkening as he glanced away, struggling against the pain of the impending separation.

"Alright then, I suppose that's the way it has to be," you replied, each word heavy with resignation before you looked out the window, the city lights flickering like stars.

"Y/N, I—" Cillian began, but you cut him off.

"There is no need for more, Cillian. This is what you want, and I understand the difficult position you are in," you murmured, the weight of the moment crushing you both. "I am not angry. I really am not. I am just sad I suppose," you said before finishing the call.

"I have to go now. I am taking Nina to the doctors tomorrow morning before heading to Galway, for the audition," you added, feeling the heaviness in your chest tighten.

"Alright, just... keep me posted, okay?" Cillian replied, his voice shaky.

"You know I will," you assured, swallowing hard. The distance felt like an anchor, yet you both understood the need for it now. The faint buzz of the city outside filled the silence, a reminder of the life that continued beyond this call.

"Take care of yourself, Y/N," Cillian's voice broke through the stillness, warm yet distant, lingering with unspoken promises.

"You too. Bye Cillian," you whispered, your heart heavy as you disconnected the call.

The silence swallowed you and your phone slid from your hand, landing softly on the counter.

You starred at the city's lights, wondering if it was all worth it. You wondered what you would do now, and you also wondered how you would possibly cope with seeing Cillian more often now.

Nina had told you that she was going to move in with him and this would complicate things. On top of that, Cillian and your father were collaborating on an app for his Mindful Podcast which, again, meant that he would be present more often in your life.

And if that was not enough already, Cillian and you were both set to attend a gala and two interviews within the next eight weeks — all of which were events that would intertwine your lives further, despite the distance he had imposed.

Tags:

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[seoltzuki]

Polite

mina x afab reader

a scrapped work of mine

suggestive, not proofread

"you can’t touch before you say please"

The corporate dinner stretched before you like an endless expanse of dread, filled with the looming presence of obnoxious rich men who chewed with their mouths open and sweated profusely under the dim lighting. You sat at your designated table, feeling suffocated by the stifling atmosphere and longing for escape.

Across the room, Mina sat at her own table, her eyes occasionally flicking in your direction amidst the sea of gaudy displays of wealth and power. You could see the resignation mirrored in her expression, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.

As the evening wore on, the cacophony of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter grated on your nerves, each moment dragging on like an eternity in the suffocating confines of corporate formality.

And to top it off, you dreaded the impending cocktail party scheduled immediately after this ordeal.

But despite the distractions, your attention kept gravitating towards Mina. Her gaze lingered on yours whenever your eyes met, a silent exchange of understanding amidst this shit show.

Observing her, every gesture and movement piqued your curiosity and admiration until your attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of her drowning her steak in ketchup. The absurdity of the act caught you off guard, but you couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at her unconventional choice.

But before you could dwell on it further, another unwelcome interruption barged in - a man intruded, his clammy hand squeezing your shoulder in a gesture that oozed familiarity and arrogance. His filthy remark elicited a forced laugh from you, masking your true feelings with a discreet eye roll as you struggled to maintain composure amidst the facade of civility.

As the dinner dragged on, the clatter of a scrapped fork against a plate echoed through the hall, punctuating the monotonous rhythm of polite conversation. A toast was raised, and people began to beg for release from their seats, eager to escape the suffocating formality of the evening and make their way to the building across the street—the Myoui firm.

Your feet dragged reluctantly toward the exit of the dinner hall, the promise of freedom beckoning as you retrieved your coat from the coat check. Amidst the bustling crowd, voices clamored with “may I”s, and you felt men pushing you around, each trying to approach a certain person—Mina, or perhaps, you.

They tried so desperately to be courteous, offering you an umbrella, but you declined all their offers; it was just a short walk, after all. As you reached the door, the sound of pouring rain greeted you, a dreary backdrop to the evening’s events.

Then, amidst the chaos, you heard the urgent clacking of heels on the ground, and before you could react, an arm looped around yours.

“May I?” Mina whispers, her breath warm against your ear as she moves a stray lock of hair from her face, opening her umbrella to shield you both from the downpour.

“Should you?” you respond, locking eyes with her as the weight of the situation settles upon you.

The prospect of stepping out into the rain together, arm in arm, would undoubtedly fuel the rumors swirling around the two of you, rumors you weren’t sure you were ready to confront just yet.

Mina’s disapproving click of her tongue and the pursing of her lips signal her impatience with your hesitation.

“You’ll be soaked,” she remarks, her tone firm as she steps ahead, her arm tightening around yours, urging you to follow her and cross the street.

She leads you towards her building and you can’t help but let out a sigh of frustration. The sight of the press and paparazzi waiting eagerly outside only adds to your irritation. Their barrage of questions about the rumored merger between your firms and the future of the rival companies feels like an invasion of privacy.

Mina, ever the picture of grace under pressure, gives her best smile and navigates her way through the crowd, the rest of the dinner attendees following closely behind. But you can’t muster the same enthusiasm. Your annoyance is palpable as you trudge through the throng, barely managing to summon even a hint of a smile.

The attendees follow Mina’s lead as they enter the building, chatter filling the air with excitement and anticipation for the cocktail event. She gracefully addresses the associates and workers, informing them of the location of the soirée on the highest floor and assuring them she’ll join the night soon after sorting out contract matters. You let out a hum of acknowledgment, preparing to join the others, but before you can make your escape, Mina’s hand darts out, grabbing your arm with a firm grip.

"Follow me," she says, her voice soft but stern, halting you in your tracks.

"Mina, please, I just wanna get this over so I can go home. I really don’t wanna negotiate right now," you huff, your tone pleading as she guides you through the halls of the building. The chatter from the others fades away as she unlocks a door with a keycard.

She scoffs, "trust me, you're not the only one who feels this way, y/n." With another swipe of the keycard, you step into a private elevator, the only floor listed as "CEO Myoui Mina."

The ride up is surprisingly quick, and you can't help but marvel at the lavishness of Mina's building compared to yours. It even takes you aback when the elevator doors slide open, revealing the 50th floor—her office, which could easily pass for a penthouse, offering a breathtaking view of the city.

She tosses the umbrella into a basket, then removes her fur coat. Extending her hand, she gestures for you to hand over your coat, before placing both garments on a hook.

You look at her, arms crossed, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in. You just want to go home. She walks over to the bar, pouring two glasses of wine before returning and offering you one. You decline with a shake of your head.

“What did you bring me up here for?”

She takes a sip of her wine, contemplating for a moment before addressing the rumors head-on. "What do you want to do about them?" she asks, her gaze steady as she waits for your response.

Rolling your eyes, you walk up to the large window, gazing down at the drenched cityscape below, raindrops streaking the glass.

“To be honest,” you begin, “I just want to do my work in peace. I don’t want the press after me.”

Mina joins you at the window, her expression softening. “I understand,” she replies, her voice gentle. “But we can’t ignore this. We need to address the rumors before they spiral out of control.”

"We could ignore it. Let it die down-"

“Can I be honest?” Mina cuts in, her fingers gently brushing against yours as she takes a step backward, settling onto the edge of her desk. “I wouldn’t be opposed to merging with your firm. I think we could be very powerful together.”

“I appreciate your candor, Miss Myoui,” you say sarcastically, a scoff escaping your lips. “I don’t know what you heard about me, but I’m not someone who’s easy like your other associates.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be like my other associates,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, her eyes shamelessly tracing along your figure.

You draw nearer until you’re barely inches apart, a scowl tainting your features. In the charged silence that envelops you, a silent protest forms: Just because Mina is attractive, intelligent, and charming doesn’t mean she can toy with you like this.

“Mina-”

“You know we could accomplish a lot together,” she smiles, her charm radiating like a magnet drawing you closer. Her fingers tap lightly against her wine glass, a teasing rhythm that matches the quickening pace of your heart. As she speaks, her other hand ghosts over your thigh, sending a thrill coursing through your body.

You watch, transfixed, as she spreads her legs slightly, the slit in her navy blue silk dress riding up just enough to reveal a hint of skin. It’s an invitation you can’t resist, and you step between her legs, the heat of her proximity sending a surge of desire coursing through you.

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” you say, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips as you take the glass from her hands and set it aside. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” You tilt your head slightly, your gaze locked with hers.

Mina nods, her hands now at the back of your thighs, her nails digging in slightly, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “For now,” she says, her voice low and tantalizing, “let’s focus on the present moment, yeah?”

Her touch sends a shiver down your spine as her hands trail up to your waist, squeezing gently. You reciprocate, trailing your fingers up her arm to her jaw, then to the back of her neck, where you play with the baby hairs there.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your eyes locked with hers, searching for any hint of what’s going on in her mind.

“You,” she whispers, as she bites her lip, a hint of desire flickering in her eyes. “I can’t deny it, you’re always on my mind.”

A surge of heat courses through you at her words, and you lean in closer, your breath mingling with hers. “And you,” you reply huskily, your voice low and filled with longing, “have been occupying my thoughts more than usual lately.”

With a smile playing on her lips, you lean in, pressing a tender kiss to Mina’s cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. Your hand trails behind, gently cradling her jaw, holding her close.

She responds with a soft sigh of pleasure, turning her head to meet your gaze. With a tender affection that melts your heart, she pecks your palm gently, her lips lingering against your skin.

Your hand firmly grasps her hip, pulling Mina closer as your lips collide in a hungry, wet kiss. Urgent and fervent, tongues glide and teeth tug at lips, eliciting soft moans that slip out between desperate breaths.

With a low growl of desire, you feel Mina’s fingers boldly grip your ass, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“Mina,” you gasp, your breath catching in your throat as she shifts her attention to your neck. You whimper softly, unable to contain the pleasure that courses through you as she leaves open-mouthed kisses on your skin, her lips trailing a path of fire along your neck.

A sharp bite causes you to moan loudly in response. Mina pauses and you catch your breath. Another quick kiss to your swollen lips leaves you yearning for more, and before you know it, she’s pushing you back onto her office chair.

You watch, transfixed, as she scoots back slightly on her desk, her movements deliberate and enticing. With a seductive glance, she widens her legs, rising up her dress to reveal her hips, the fabric riding up tantalizingly. The sight leaves you breathless, your heart racing with desire as you eagerly await her next move.

The sight of the wet patch on her baby blue lingerie sends a surge of arousal coursing through you, making you hold back a moan as you huff with desire. You roll towards her eagerly, intent on feasting on her wetness, but before you can reach her, a sharp heel digs into your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you look up at Mina with wide eyes, the intensity of the moment leaving you speechless.

With a sultry smirk, she leans forward, the heel pressing into your shoulder as she whispers, “You can’t touch before you say please, baby.”

Her words make you clench around nothing as you realize the game she’s playing. You swallow hard, your voice thick with desire as you utter the words she’s been waiting to hear.

“Please, Mina,” you whisper, your body trembling with need. “Let me touch you.”

Mina chuckles softly, “you gotta start being polite,” she teases, her voice dripping with mischief as she toys with you, relishing in the power she holds over you.

“Please.”

“Good. You can have a taste, y/n.”

[andy-15-07]

I absolutely, totally love your blog ❣️ makes my day everytime you answer an ask

Could you write sth about reader having real bad insomnia and Joel taking care of her ? In Jackson (everything is fine and everybody is well, but the past shows up in her dreams and makes her give up on sleeping...)

When the Night Whispers

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1862 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Jackson's evenings were meant to be peaceful—a haven of community, warmth, and the simple rhythms of a small town. But for y/n, the nights were anything but restful. Despite the life they'd built together in Jackson, the past had a way of creeping into her dreams, turning each attempt at sleep into a battleground of memories and fears.

It was well past midnight when y/n awoke again, her eyes snapping open to the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Every time she closed her eyes, fragments of painful memories returned: voices, faces, long-forgotten moments that now held her captive. Tonight was no different, and the familiar dread of another sleepless night settled over her like a heavy shroud.

Before she could pull the covers up to hide from the dark, Joel was already at her side. His soft footsteps and the quiet concern in his eyes were a comforting contrast to the chaos in her mind. "Hey," he said in a gentle murmur, settling on the edge of the bed beside her. "I'm here."

y/n's voice trembled as she responded, "Joel, I can't stop thinking... I'm so tired, but I'm caught in these memories every time I try to sleep." Her eyes were full of a weariness that went far beyond the lack of rest.

Joel reached out, carefully brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I know, sweetheart. I see how much it hurts you. What's on your mind tonight?" His tone was soft, inviting her to share the heavy load of her thoughts.

"It's everything—my past, the things I can't forget," y/n confessed, her voice breaking. "Even here in Jackson, where everyone seems happy, I'm haunted by dreams of what I'd rather leave behind. It feels like the past is always there, whispering to me, even when I'm trying to forget."

Joel's gaze grew serious as he listened. "I'm sorry you're going through this," he said firmly. "But you're not alone, y/n. I'm here to help you face those ghosts. We'll take it one night at a time."

After a long, thoughtful pause, she asked quietly, "How did you cope with your own past, Joel? How did you keep going when the memories wouldn't let you be?"

Joel's eyes darkened with memories of his own struggles. "I've had nights where I thought I wouldn't see another sunrise. There were moments when every memory felt like a weight too heavy to bear. But I learned something important along the way: running from the past only gives it more power over you. I started focusing on the present, on building a life here—even if every night felt like a battle. And when the nightmares came, I'd remind myself that I was still here, still fighting, still capable of finding something good in the darkness."

y/n managed a small, hopeful smile. "It sounds like you're saying that even if the nightmares are real, I don't have to let them define me."

"Exactly," Joel replied, his voice both tender and determined. "You are more than your memories. I know it's hard to believe when the past is so vivid, but every new day gives you a chance to create happier memories. And when those nightmares come, I'll be here to help you through them."

For a long while, they sat in silence, the quiet of the night punctuated only by their soft breathing. Finally, y/n spoke again. "Joel, what if I wake up feeling completely lost? What if the past overwhelms me so much that I'm not sure I can handle it?"

He squeezed her hand, his grip reassuring. "Then I'll be here, holding you until you find your footing again. If you ever feel like you're drowning in your memories, lean on me. We'll talk through it—whatever you need. You deserve every bit of care and every chance to find peace."

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I'm scared, Joel. Scared that one day I might not wake up because these nightmares become too powerful. I don't want to lose myself in them."

Joel's gaze was soft, his voice a warm promise in the darkness. "I promise you, y/n, we'll face every night together. We can try little things—maybe a routine before bed, a walk outside under the stars, or even just talking until the fear subsides. Whatever it takes, we'll find a way to bring some calm back into your nights."

A tentative smile began to form on her lips as she considered his words. "A walk under the stars... I'd like that. It might be just what I need to remind me that there's still beauty in the night."

Later that evening, as dusk turned to twilight, Joel and y/n stepped out into the cool night air. The streets of Jackson were quiet, lit by the gentle glow of lanterns and the soft shimmer of stars overhead. They strolled slowly, their hands intertwined. "Tell me about one of your happiest memories here," Joel said, his tone light yet sincere. "Something that makes you smile, even for a moment."

y/n paused, looking up at the vast, starlit sky. "I remember the festival last fall," she said softly. "Everyone was laughing, dancing... and for a while, I felt like I belonged. I saw you laughing with our neighbors, and it made me feel safe. It was a time when I almost forgot how heavy my past could be."

Joel chuckled, a warm sound that blended with the night. "That was a good day. I remember seeing you light up with joy—like nothing in the world could touch you. I hope you know that even when you feel overwhelmed by your memories, that light is still inside you."

They continued their walk in a comfortable silence, punctuated by moments of soft conversation. "Sometimes," y/n admitted, "I wish I could just forget everything bad and start over. I feel like those nightmares are a part of me that I can't escape."

Joel stopped walking and looked at her earnestly. "We all have parts of our past that we'd rather forget," he said. "But those memories, as painful as they are, also mean that you survived them. They're proof of your strength. And every day, you're building something new here in Jackson—a life filled with hope and love."

A thoughtful silence followed, filled with the distant sounds of nocturnal life. Then, with a hint of determination, y/n added, "Maybe we can try to create a little ritual. Something that helps remind me that I'm safe here, that I'm not defined by those nightmares."

Joel's eyes lit up with a gentle smile. "I'd like that. Let's make a habit of taking these walks, of talking about the good things—no matter how small. And if ever the nightmares come back, we'll sit together until they pass. I'll be your constant, your reminder that you're never alone."

They reached a small clearing where an ancient oak tree stretched its limbs toward the sky, a natural shelter beneath which they could rest. Joel guided y/n to a weathered wooden bench beneath the tree. "Sit with me for a while," he said. "I want to hear more about what you're feeling. There's no judgment here—only understanding."

As they sat together, y/n's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Sometimes I wake up, and for a moment, I'm sure I've stepped back into that nightmare. The past is so vivid that I can't tell if I'm dreaming or awake. It terrifies me."

Joel's hand rested on hers, steady and sure. "I know it's terrifying, love. But remember, those memories do not have the power to hurt you now. They're a part of your history, yes, but they don't control who you are. You are here, in this moment, with me. And together, we can make new memories—ones that are filled with hope, not fear."

y/n leaned her head on Joel's shoulder, letting his warmth seep into the parts of her that were still raw from the night's struggles. "I want to believe that," she whispered. "I really do. I'm just afraid that the darkness will always find a way in."

Joel lifted her chin gently, meeting her eyes. "Look at me, y/n. Every scar, every painful memory, they're all a part of you—and they make you the incredible person you are today. I've seen you face your demons with more courage than you know. And I promise, as long as I'm here, you'll never have to face them alone."

Their conversation wove through the hours of the night as they discussed fears, dreams, and the quiet moments that made Jackson a home. Joel shared stories of his own struggles, of nights spent wrestling with memories and finding solace in the promise of a new day. y/n listened, her voice interjecting with questions and confessions, each word a step toward healing.

"Do you think these nightmares will ever truly end?" y/n asked at one point, her eyes searching the dark as if the answers were hidden in its folds.

Joel's reply was steady and reassuring. "Maybe not completely, but they can become less powerful. With time, as you create more light in your life, those dark moments will fade into the background. And on the nights when they're still there, I'll be right beside you, reminding you of all the good we have."

As the early hints of dawn began to paint the sky with soft pastels, they slowly made their way back to their home. Joel brewed a pot of chamomile tea—its gentle aroma a small promise of calm—and together they sat on the porch as the new day crept in.

"Drink this," Joel said as he handed her a warm cup. "It might help ease the tension tonight. And remember, if you wake up and feel lost again, I'm right here. We'll talk, or we can just hold each other until you find that peace again."

y/n cradled the cup in her hands, a smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Joel. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "You won't have to find out, y/n. I'm here—and I'm not going anywhere."

In that quiet, fragile moment on the porch, as the world slowly stirred awake in Jackson, y/n felt a spark of hope ignite within her. The memories of her past might still whisper in the dark, but with Joel's unwavering presence, each night became a little less daunting, each step toward healing a little more certain.

Together, they faced the promise of a new day—a day where even if the night whispered of old pain, their shared love and strength could quiet even the loudest echoes of the past. And in the soft light of morning, as the horrors of the night receded into distant memories, they knew that no matter what darkness lay ahead, they would always have each other to guide them back into the light.

[starryschemer]

Shattered Odds - (Chapter Sixteen)

Pairings: Salesman x reader, Slight Jun-ho x reader, Slight Gi-hun x reader

Summary: Gi-hun finds himself in a high-stakes game with not only his life but the life of someone he cares deeply about. You. Can Gi-hun outsmart the salesman? Or will the odds catch up with him?

Warnings: Dubious consent (Dubcon), emotional manipulation/abuse, psychological manipulation, trauma aftermath, stalking, references to death games, power dynamics, gun violence, obsession themes, dark themes

Taglist: @aesthetic-winchesters @therandomofpink @cowuies @alzeralz @agaypurpletoaster

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Chapter Sixteen : A safe place

Word Count: 5,498 The door slid open, revealing the Saleman’s sleek, modern space of the penthouse. The walls are a flawless white, and the floors are shining with wood against the lighting. Everything was immaculate. 

You stepped out of the elevator first, and each of your footsteps was quiet but heavy with the weight of dread. Your limbs were moving on autopilot as your mind looped with fragmented thoughts, still remembering what had happened earlier with the Front Man. 

Behind you, the Salesman’s silhouette appeared, framed by the dim light, calm. The elevator doors closed behind him with a soft click, and the silence of the penthouse wrapped around you both like a wire. 

He moved deliberately, slowly, as if he was savoring the moment. His footsteps were measured against the wooden floor. The loud thud of his keys hitting the marble countertop punctuated the air. They slipped off their suit jacket, hanging them on the stand by the door. 

You were staring out the massive windows, barely registering what the Salesman was doing. But then, their voice came, cold, smooth, low.

“Tonight,” he said, “you’ll sleep in my bed.”

Glancing at them, shocked, not from surprise, but from the way he said it, like you had no choice, as if it was an order, sending an uneasy feeling through your veins.

Every muscle was tightening, eyes beginning to narrow. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The Salesman didn’t blink. Instead, they smiled in a predatory manner. Thin lips curling just so. He took a step closer, and suddenly the space between you was closing in. The way his eyes told a different story. Possessive. 

“I know you heard me, Y/N. I don’t like repeating things twice.”

Your jaw clenched, your voice as steady as you could possibly manage. “And if I want to be alone tonight?”

They did a dark, almost amused, chuckle. “Well, that was before.” Their hands sliding into his pant pockets as he circled you slowly, like you were his prey. “Before you pulled the trigger on the Front Man. Before your darkness came through.”

You swallowed hard. The way he was moving, so assured and confident, was maddening.

“You belong where I can watch you, Y/N. It is so I can see you change fully.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but it wasn’t from fear. It was something odd, strange. Something like acceptance, maybe defiance, buried beneath your layers of exhaustion.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you said quietly.

The Salesman nodded slowly, as if pleased. “Good. But don’t take too long. I would hate to start the night without you.” His voice dropped, a low murmur only meant for your ears.

You turned sharply and stormed off, muscles taut. Their gaze followed, unblinking. You could feel the weight of it down your spine.

Down the hallway, you reached the linen closet. Your fingers shook slightly as you slid the door open, pulling out the softest, white towel you could find, afterwards, walking to a dresser and picking a thin nightgown. The fabric felt foreign in your hands, delicate, a stark contrast to the growing storm forming within. 

Closing the dresser, you stopped, hesitated. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe in the silence, the subtle scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. You weren’t just a guest here. Not anymore. You were now something else. A possession, and tonight, the Salesman would be waiting. However, you knew you had to shower fast; he could get angry at the drop of a dime.

You stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind you, locking it with a quiet click, just in case.

The movement of the latch slid into place, the way your body slumped slightly, like you had been holding yourself upright just long enough to escape their gaze. A part of you still knew that this place was never safe, not when you could still hear his footsteps echoing in your skull.

You turned the shower knob, the pipes hissed, and soon, warm water began to fall, steam spilling into the air. The bathroom transformed around you, the luxurious place now blurred at the edges with fog. Even in the light overhead, you seemed softer. 

Steam kissed the surface of the mirror, slowly erasing your reflection. You didn’t mind, of course, you would rather not see yourself after what happened earlier that day.

You slipped out of your clothes, leaving them pooled on the floor. When you stepped into the shower, the heat struck you in an instant; it wasn’t a gentle warmth, no, it was a blistering pour that burned your skin, flooding your senses until nothing else could break through.

You pressed your palms to the cool tile wall, head bowed under the rush of the water. Back aching. Shoulders tight. And still it wasn’t enough. The water didn’t burn it away. Not the sound of the empty shell clattering on the marble floor. Not the echo when you pulled the trigger. Not even the look in the Front Man’s eyes, like he saw you. The real you. Still feeling the weight of the gun in your hands, the jolting through your arm. 

You barely felt the water now, opening your mouth wanting to scream, however, just a rasped whisper, cracked through.

“What’s happening to me…” 

Your voice died in the steam. You closed your eyes as tightly as you could, jaw clenched. You’d meant it as a question, but there was no answer. 

Because, well, a part of you already knew. Something had awakened, changed. It was alive now. 

The image of the Salesman’s smug grin flashed in your mind, the way he had looked at you earlier in the car, like this was a gift he had been waiting years for. Something he could mold.

He was way too eager, too excited. And yet, you stepped into the car willingly, not trying to sprint off to Gi-hun, not trying to fight them back, you just followed through with their orders. 

That is what scared you the most: changing. Would Gi-hun still love this new side of you? What would Jun-ho think?

You stayed under the spray until your skin felt raw and turned red, until your legs threatened to give. Then, finally, slowly, you turned the water off. Carefully stepping out so you don’t end up slipping on the sleek marble floor, and grabbing the towel, pressing it against your body as if you could scrub all your worries away. Then, the nightgown, soft, like a second skin.

Only the faint outline of yourself was visible in the mirror now. You didn’t linger.

Padding across the tiles, the towel and old clothes gripped in one hand, you unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall. The cool air bit at your somewhat damp skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. 

You made your way to the Salesman’s bedroom, not before throwing the clothes and towel into the washing machine. 

The lights coming out of his bedroom were low, casting the hallway in amber shadows. Slowly, you opened the door and saw him, already lying on the bed.

The Salesman reclined against the plush headboard. His bare chest was on full view as his arms were lazily behind his head, their sharp eyes tracking you with something between hunger and amusement.

“Finally,” he said, voice smooth but with a hint of something dark beneath it. “I was beginning to think you’d drowned.”

“In a shower?”

He shrugged his shoulders while showing his teeth in a wicked grin. “Want to see if that is possible?”

You didn’t respond. Not really. Just padded toward the far side of the bed, keeping your movements quiet, careful. The silence between you stretched. You didn’t like the way their gaze lingered on you, not when you were wearing a thin piece of fabric. 

You slipped under the blanket and turned your back to him, immediately placing some sheets between you. 

For a moment, nothing happened. 

Then, you felt it. The heat of his pressing closer, their hand reached across the space, fingers brushing softly along your waist before curling his fingers slightly. Testing to see how much he could do before you snapped.

You stiffened at his touch; however, he didn’t stop.

He leaned in, their breath warm and intimate against your neck. Then, he pressed his lips to your bare shoulder. Just once. A slow, controlling kiss. Like he thought he was entitled to do that. 

That caused your fury to crack through. 

Your elbow launched back hard, aiming straight for his ribs. However, he caught your wrist mid-swing. 

“Ah, ah Y/N,” he snarled, voice close to your ear. “That’s no way to thank me for keeping you safe.”

You turned your head sharply towards him. “Don’t touch me like that.”

He froze for a second, then pulled back slightly, hands lifted like you were a wild animal he was trying not to spook. But the grin stayed. He was too entertained.

“Alright, darling. Didn’t know the shower would make you even… feistier,” he exclaimed, letting out a dry chuckle.

“I’m dead serious. I don’t want you near me. I don’t want your gross hands touching me.”

His smile didn’t drop. If anything, it deepened. 

“Oh, I believe you,” he hummed. “But it’s cute pretending you don’t feel it, this connection bet-”

“Shut the hell up so I can sleep.”

He blinked once, then slowly backed off. 

“Fine, fine. No heart-to-heart tonight. Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

You rolled away, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders, spine rigid. Behind you, the silence thickened, but not because the Salesman was respecting your space. It was the kind that meant he was still smiling in the dark, still watching you, still waiting.

And you hated that a small part wondered what he would’ve said next if you’d let him keep going.

The smell woke you before anything else. 

Buttery. Warm. A hint of garlic and something smoky. It clung inside your nose before your eyes even opened, causing rumbling sounds from your stomach. You fluttered your eyes open to the soft light of the morning seeping in through the curtains. The space around you was quiet, apart from the distant clatter of pans being moved and the soft murmur of classical music playing from somewhere down the hall. The soft scent of something deliberate. Not just eggs and toast. Something thoughtful.

You drew the sheets away, then stood up, slipping on a nearby robe draped across the edge of the bed, and you went into the hallway barefoot. 

Eventually, you made it into the kitchen doorway and froze.

There he was.

The Salesman, humming to the classical music playing in a low, slightly off-key tone, stood at the stove wearing a crisp white dress shirt rolled to their elbows. No blazer on. A tie laid out on the counter beside a steaming mug of what you guessed was coffee.

He stood at the stove, cooking.

Not ordering someone to make them food. Not ordering something in. But cooking. A skillet full of eggs, another with sautéed green onions and cherry tomatoes, was on the burner, and beside them was a plate with toast and sliced avocado, dusted with some seasoning. 

He hadn’t noticed you yet. He almost looked…normal. Homey.

Until they turned and saw you. A wide grin stretched across his face in an instant, like he’d been waiting for your arrival.

“Good morning, darling,” he said brightly. “I hope you’re hungry.”

You blinked. “You’re…”

“Cooking? I know, I know. Shocking, right?” He flipped the eggs with expertise. “Believe it or not, Y/N, I’m a man of many talents. Just don’t expect me to do this every morning, I'm spoiling you.”

You refused to move, caught off guard. “Why are you being so nice?”

“Because I felt like it. Is that so suspicious of me?”

“Yes.”

The Salesman lightly laughed. “Well, you’re still here after all.”

You stepped inside slowly, the wooden floor slightly cool under your feet.

He slid the finished meal onto a plate and set it down at the marble counter, gesturing for you to sit. “Avocado toast. Sunny side up eggs. Tomatoes sautéed with green onions and rosemary.”

You took a seat, hesitantly, eyeing the food. Your stomach growled.

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking a bite.

He gave you a small, amused look, then picked up their black coffee, no milk, of course. “I’m heading to work soon,” he said casually, sipping. “Got some dull meetings to suffer through.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what those meetings are about, are you?”

He smiled, leaning closer across the counter. “Let’s just say it’s performance-based. Like yours yesterday.”

You stiffened, not taking another bite.

The Salesman reached forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, Y/N.”

Then, like it was normal, he kissed the top of your forehead. You could barely breathe. Stunned.

They placed their tie over their shirt, rolled down the sleeves of their dress shirt, then grabbed their blazer, slinging it over their shoulder. At the door, he turned back with a grin. 

“Oh, by the way, we have got a special outing tomorrow,” he added. “You are going to love it.”

And with that, he disappeared out the door.

The moment the door shut behind the Salesman, the penthouse seemed to exhale. You finished eating while you heard the low ding of the elevator, confirming what you needed to hear. That he was gone.

For now, at least.

Your heart thudded in your throat as you scanned around the apartment. There. A plain door you’d passed a few times, tucked near the edge of the hallway between the guest bathroom and the wine rack. You had always assumed it was a utility closet. But not anymore.

You placed the plates into the dishwasher, turning it on, before moving quickly towards the door, toes brushing against the polished floor, being careful not to get any unwanted attention.

Your hand hesitated on the doorknob as you turned it slowly. It opened. No scanner. No alarm. No digital lock. Just a hidden passage hiding in plain sight. 

The room was big enough for a desk and a few shelves, but it was pulsing through your body with tension. The walls were lined with a matte-black paneling. Thick curtains block out the natural light.

At first glance, it looked normal. Minimalist. Clean

But then your eyes adjusted, and the details began to emerge.

A wall full of surveillance monitors, all black, except one flickering in a loop of grainy footage. It looked like the lobby of this building. How did he get access to those cameras, you wondered? A table in the corner held maps of an island, notes, and a closed binder with a blood-red spine.

And mounted on one of the shelves was a safe. It was larger than you expected. Sleek black with a keypad glowing faintly.

Six digits. 

You stared at it, heart pounding. There was no way you were cracking it without a code. 

Unless…

You turned back to the room, eyes sharpening, running over everything with surgical precision. Nothing seemed out of place, except an old-fashioned record player in the corner. The Salesman was the type who preferred things that looked modern, new. So why on earth was there a vintage record player here? It looked more ornamental than functional. 

Curiosity twisted your gut. You walked to it and gently lifted the lid. No vinyl inside, but something was wedged beneath the lip of the wooden interior, catching your eye. A thin, black notebook, barely visible, hidden behind the record player’s mechanism.

You gently eased it out.

Pages filled with scrawled notes, financial figures, but halfway through, a set of numbers stood out:

Office - 010034

Heart in your mouth, you turned back to the safe.

0 - 1 - 0 - 0 - 3 - 4

A soft beep, you pulled the safe back, and froze.

The first thing you saw was stacks of crisp banknotes, bound with thin white paper bands. It was too much to count, thousands and thousands of dollars. Blood money. Literal blood money.

Next, your eyes glanced at stacks of ddakji, paper squares in red or blue, folded with a clean precision. Their edges were slightly worn from use. A children’s game. Memories flooded back of Gi-hun informing you that the Salesman would recruit people this way.

Your breath caught as you uncovered a bundle of cards, just like the one the Front Man gave you, the same symbols on them, the same amount of numbers on the back. No names, no addresses attached. 

They were all tools of their manipulation. 

On the lower shelf of the safe, you found the real sickness. 

Photos.

The first one made you stop. 

Gi-hun. A surveillance shot, somewhere outside a convenience store. He looked weathered. A cigarette hanging from his fingers, his gaze turned away.

Then Jun-ho, caught mid-stride in their police uniform. The features were blurry, but unmistakably him.

Then…

You.

It was recent. You were walking out of the safe house you stayed at with Gi-hun & Jun-ho. The image had been taken without your knowledge, and you remembered the outfit. The angle suggested a camera was hidden somewhere near a bush.

Your fingers clenched.

But there was more. Files, each one stamped with red ink.

You flipped through the first one.

Participant #456: Seong Gi-hun - Game behaviour logs. Psychological profiles. Notes on their emotional triggers.

The next:

Police Officer: Hwang Jun-ho - A record of his movements. Even a report about his “disappearance” when he gained access to the island.

And then the last:

Potential Partnership: [Your Name] - Pages upon pages of analysis. Your hospital records. Your childhood. Your relationships. Every detail of your life.

Rage twisted in your stomach, but you didn’t scream. You didn’t even breathe too loudly.

You moved on instinct.

Jun-ho’s burner phone they gave you.

You sprinted back to the laundry, flinging open the washing machine door, tearing through your old jeans. There. Still dry. Still working.

Afterwards, racing back to the room, closing the door behind you, and began documenting everything. One by one. You photographed the cash. The ddakji. The cards. The photos. Every page of the files.

Your hands were trembling so badly that you almost dropped the phone more than once.

Every flash made you flinch, the fear that the Salesman might return at any second.

After you managed to get all the photos, well over 40 of them, you placed everything back just the way you found it. The files were straightened out. The photos are stacked in the correct order. You closed the safe door, the keypad beeping softly as you reentered the code again: 010034, waiting for the click before pulling away.

Then back to the record player. Notebook in place. Laid down. Wiped clean. You paused at the door. Looking around one final time. No sign of your intrusion. Then you stepped out gently, closing the door behind you.

Only now did you dare open the messages app. You clicked send to Jun-ho, all the images selected, message typed.

➤ Y/N: From the Salesman’s safe. Be careful.

The loading screen spun, and spun. Your heart dropped when the message returned.

“Sending…may take 10 - 12 hours. Weak signal.”

You stared at it. No bars. Of course. You were in a penthouse rigged with jammers. Probably buried in encryption.

However, the message was trying. It just needed time. You slipped the phone into the pocket of your new robe. Now, all you could do was wait and pray it sent everything before he noticed. 

The sky outside had turned a dusky amber, and the penthouse was bathed in a warm, late evening light. You sat on the couch, legs curled beneath you, pretending to read the same chapter for the fifth time. However, your mind wasn’t in the book. It was the items you found in the safe. 

Then, your pocket buzzed, causing your chest to do a sudden sharp jolt. You slipped your hand and fished out the phone. 

[Incoming Video Call – JUN-HO]

You didn’t hesitate, setting the book aside and making your way down the hall towards the guest bathroom. 

You slipped inside and locked the door behind you. The water was turned on from the tap, creating a soft, gentle sound. 

You accepted the call.

“Jun-ho?”

His face came into focus, dimly lit. Their brows slightly furrowed when he saw you. “You, okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’m alone currently.”

Just then, in the background, Gi-hun went into the frame. “Y/N?”

“Hey,” you said softly, your heart aching at the sight of him.

“You look… tired,” he said. “But alive. Thank god, I was worried he did something to you.”

You gave a faint smile.

“Anyways, I’m heading to the store,” Gi-hun added, grabbing his keys. “Be safe, yeah?”

And then he was gone, leaving you and Jun-ho alone. He moved into the frame properly now. “Did you find anything?”

“Files and pictures of us mainly, there are also some items he uses to recruit people.”

His expression darkened. “Good. We’ll need it to stop the games.”

Your gaze flickered over his shoulder and caught something. A framed photo on the shelf. It was two men. Young, proud. Smiling.

“Hey, Jun-ho. Who’s the guy in that photo with you?”

He glanced back, then froze. His face went still. 

“Oh, that’s… my brother,” he said quietly. “In-ho.”

Your stomach twisted. 

“I met him. Do you know that he is the…”

“The Front Man,” he muttered, looking down, being silent for a moment. “Yeah, I know he is.”

You leaned closer to the screen.

“How did you find out?”

Jun-ho exhaled shakily. “Please promise me you won’t tell anyone, including Gi-hun.”

“I won’t, I promise, Jun-ho.”

He nodded. “When Gi-hun was in the games, I managed to infiltrate the island. I dressed as a guard. I needed answers on where to find my brother. I needed proof.”

You listened, refusing to speak.

“I slipped into the system. Eventually, they realized that a police officer was there. I tried to swim to another island to call for help…”

SLAM.

The front door to the penthouse crashed open. Sudden. Loud. You flinched so hard the phone nearly slipped from your fingers.

Jun-ho’s head jerked up on the screen. “Y/N?”

“Oh, sweetheart?” The Salesman’s voice echoed through the walls. “I’m home! I got us some takeout from a nice restaurant down the street.”

Panic surged. Your pulse quickened as you whispered. “He’s back. I have to go.”

“Wait,” Jun-ho said quickly. “The moment I got to that other island, I was…”

You pressed the end call button before he could finish. The screen went black. The running water is still going. You tried to calm your breathing as you switched the tap off, slowly unlocking the door, stepping into the hallway like nothing had happened.

But Jun-ho’s unfinished sentence was on your mind. 

“I was…”

Captured? Saved? 

You might never find out, not if the Salesman knew what you were doing. 

You slipped the phone into your pocket as you moved into the kitchen/living area, the scent of warm food hit you. Takeout containers sat on the table, neatly arranged with precision.

He stood at the table, back to you, humming something under his breath as he unpacked the bags.

“There you are,” he said without turning, their voice was unreadable. 

You lingered in the doorway. “You got food?”

He glanced over his shoulder with a casual smile. “Mmhm,” he responded. “I figured we should eat something together. I was meant to do more meetings, but they let me come home early.”

You strolled towards the table, letting your eyes scan over the boxes. “What is it?”

“Something you will enjoy,” he replied simply, organizing the dishes with an almost obsessive manner. “It would pair nicely with some red wine.”

He turned to face you fully now, his gaze dragging across your body. 

“Could you grab a bottle, my dear?” he asked, pointing towards the wine rack. “Get a good vintage one.”

You moved, your footsteps quiet across the floor as you stepped to the rack and scanned the labels. Your fingers brushed a bottle of cabernet, and you reached to take it, only to realize he was suddenly behind you.

Too close.

You flinched, startled by his sudden presence. The wine bottle slipped from your grasp, but he caught it. Effortlessly. One hand around the neck of the bottle. 

The glass didn’t break; however, something in the air certainly did.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice far too pleased with himself. “We wouldn’t want you making a mess.”

You stared at him, heart in your throat. Their eyes scanned your lips, then your eyes. 

“You’re a bit jumpy tonight,” he added. “Is something wrong, Y/N?”

You reached out to take the bottle from the Salesman, but their grip lingered, fingers brushing against yours a second too long. He tilted his head slightly, his face studying you.

“It has been a long day.”

He finally released the bottle, causing you to clutch it tighter than necessary.

“I’ll get us some glasses. Could you place the wine on the table for me?” He said smoothly, walking towards the kitchen.

You walked to the table with the wine in hand, fingers still tingling from the near-slip earlier. You placed it beside the takeout containers, its dark glass catching the flicker of the candles he’d already lit.

Behind you, you could hear the soft clinking of glass. The Salesman came over carrying two glasses with careful precision.

“Let me, you can have a seat.”

You sat, causing him to smile.

He uncorked the wine without speaking this time, carefully, pouring your glass first, then his. You nodded with a mock gratitude, lifting your glass.

The wine caught the glow of the candlelight, almost black in the shadows. He sat down, raising his glass, not quite to toast, but to observe.

“It breathes better when you let it sit for a while,” he murmured, watching you instead of the drink in hand. “But I suppose we don’t have the luxury to do that tonight, do we?”

Dinner was silent. The candlelight flickered gently between the two of you, casting soft shadows, but it did little to warm the tension in the air. Every flicker of the flame seemed to catch in his eyes, casually cutting into their food with such grace.

You were refusing to eat. Moving the fork in lazy patterns, listening to the scrape of porcelain against silver. Meanwhile, the Salesman seemed perfectly at ease, savoring each bite.

He glanced up mid-bite, eyes glinting with interest.

“You have barely touched your food.”

“I’m not hungry,” you muttered softly.

Their lips curled in the corners. Not quite a smile. Just recognition. He knew exactly why. A few seconds passed by. Then your voice broke.

“Did you recruit anyone today?”

He didn’t look surprised by the question; they almost seemed like he was waiting for you to ask that.

“Of course I did. It’s what I do.”

“How many?”

He shrugged. “Enough.”

You let that sit for a moment. The idea that all it took was some money, a card, and a smirk to lead someone to their death. That they knew how to manipulate a person into throwing everything away, as long as he knew the right buttons to press. And he was a monster at pushing them.

“You enjoy recruiting,” you said, not a question.

His smile darkened. “Of course I do.” 

“Well, do you ever think about what happens to them?”

His eyes didn’t flinch, slowly taking a sip of wine. “No.”

You stared at your plate. Then, slowly, you looked at the candle. The wax was running now, slow and steady, like blood.

“When, um, when do the games begin?” you asked, more quietly.

“One week.”

Nausea crept up through your body. He leaned forward slightly, voice softer but no less disturbing. 

“Why did you want to watch them?”

You looked at him in shock. “No.”

He lightly hummed to himself.

You eventually managed to eat a few bites of the food on your plate while he was watching you, always watching.

The sound of your fork being set down on the table.

“I’m finished,” you said softly.

He rose smoothly from his chair. “I’ll help with the dishes.

The two of you moved to the sink. He dried while you washed. Their fingers were practiced, quick, like this wasn’t the first time he had slipped into the role of being a domestic partner. The silence between you was thick, broken only by the sound of occasional clinks of dishes being stacked and running water. 

While you were washing the final dish, you felt a slight buzz in your pocket. The phone. Did Jun-ho get the images? Quickly, you placed the final dish on the rack, drying your hands on your sides, and quietly excused yourself.

“I just need to use the restroom. I’ll be back soon.”

All he did was nod. They didn’t follow, while you slipped down the hallway, trying not to look suspicious. Inside the bathroom, you slowly shut the door and locked it. The slight, faint hum of the fan covers your breathing. You pulled the phone out of your pocket, heart pounding. 

It lit up.

➤ Jun-ho: Got the photos. You did a good job, Y/N. Stay safe. Message me if you need anything. 

You sighed, relief blooming across your chest, while staring at the message for a moment longer, soaking in the confirmation. He had them. It was in their hands now. 

Your fingers were about to type out a reply when-

Knock. Knock.

You jumped in the air, nearly dropping the phone into the sink.

Their voice followed, cheerful, way too cheerful, scaring you.

“Ohhhh, darling. Are you nearly done in there?”

Shoving the phone back into your pocket, then turning towards the door, trying to compose yourself. 

“Yeah, why?” 

“We’re going fishing tomorrow!”

You froze in shock. What did he say?

“Fishing?” You echoed, trying to sound as calm as possible.

“Mmhmm!” he sang. “It’ll be fun. Just a peaceful little getaway outside.”

With one last breath, you unlocked the door and stepped out, staring at him.

“I don’t have anything to wear to do that.”

His reply was immediate.

“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow morning. Something cute. We can pick it together.”

He chuckled softly, walking towards the kitchen, like he was planning a honeymoon, not a random day trip with a sadist freak.

You stood there for a few seconds before following the Salesman. The scent of leftover soy sauce and candle wax lingered in the air, mixing with something else, their cologne.

He was in the kitchen, carefully putting away wine glasses like this was a normal evening. Their back were to you.

“Why are you so happy?” You asked, unable to hide the suspicion from your tone of voice.

He didn’t turn around immediately, gently closing the cabinet with a deliberate calm.

“Happy?” He echoed, finally turning to face you. Their smile was smug. “Why wouldn’t I be? We just had a lovely dinner.”

You didn’t smile back at him, crossing your arms across your chest. 

“That’s not what I mean. You are giddy. Weirdly happy.”

He tilted his head, a slight, playful expression. 

“I’m just… excited,” he said. “It’s not every day that I get to go outside with a beautiful woman. Tomorrow will be refreshing. We both need the fresh air, being cooped up for too long, don’t you think?”

“You mean I have.”

He didn’t deny it. 

“And it’s not just us, of course,” they added.

Your stomach dropped slightly. “Someone else is coming?”

“Just an old-time friend. You’ll love him.”

“Well, who is it?”

He walked past you, shrugging, heading to the couch, flopping down like he didn’t just drop a bomb shell.

“As for who, that is a surprise.”

You walked towards him, placing your hands on your hips. “Why do I feel like I don’t have a say in this?”

He looked at you from the couch, eyes darkening.

“Because, my dear, Y/N,” he said sweetly, “you’re the guest and I’m the host.”

They didn’t reply, just patting the cushion beside him.

“Come sit.”

You didn’t move, glaring at him.

“Suit yourself,” he sighed, letting their head fall back against the cushions. “Big day tomorrow. I’ll see you bright and early.”

The room felt colder now, despite the thick heat of the evening, as you walked to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you. 

Fishing. A friend of his. He had friends? It was clear that you didn’t like any of this. 

Slowly, you changed into some comfortable pyjamas before going under the covers, allowing sleep to take over you, hoping that you would wake up from this nightmare. 

A/N: If you would like to be tagged in the next chapters feel free to leave a comment, you can also suggest things you would love to see in the series.

Credit for divider: omi-resources

[eff4freddie]

Physical Therapy

Joel Miller x AFAB Reader No Outbreak AU - 4.4k words

For @punkshort's AU August challenge, in celebration of her one year Tumblr anniversary!

A.N: My prompt was 'lifeguard Joel' and I'm nursing a bit of a sore wrist at the moment, hence whatever this is was born. Thanks for the fun prompt! I would very much like Joel to save me from drowning now, please and thank you.

Warnings: None.

It had just started out as a kind of tickling feeling around behind your ear on your left side, and down along the back to the shoulder blade. When you’d first noticed it you’d thought you had a hair stuck under your shirt, and all day you kept reaching up under your bra strap to try and free it. Later, you would rub the skin red trying to lift the phantom follicle from your skin.

Later, it developed into a coldness, punctuated sometimes with ants marching up and down your shoulder blade. Your clavicle ached in cold weather, and you rolled your shoulders of a morning to try and shake the weird sensations from the joint. You were too busy to worry about it, you had too many deadlines, you could just type with your left arm resting on a pad of paper to elevate it. You knew you’d been working too hard on your paper for your next research symposium. As soon as it was over you’d deal with it.

When it started thrumming of a nighttime you’d just take ibuprofen to dull it, numb it off with a heat pack and an occasional glass of whiskey. But when it got too hard to type, when the daggers started shooting down your arm to the point that you could barely get your sleeve over it, when your shoulder was so frozen you couldn’t lift it over your head to brush your hair, you conceded defeat.

Your physiotherapist was lovely, and young, and fit, and you wished you could hate her. She ran marathons on weekends, on purpose and apparently without having first been threatened, and she gave you a bunch of exercises you promised you would do, made you pay $24.95 for a bit of stretchy rubber you could tie to your doorknob and stretch with, a couple of strength building exercises printed out and folded neatly, which you immediately threw on your coffee table and used as a coaster.

You went twice a week after work. She massaged you until you had tears in your eyes, biting back the pain by clamping down on your back teeth. You lied to her that you’d done your stretches, and she let you, because she was a nice person. Your recovery stalled, and you both pretended not to know why.

In the end, you just got fed up with yourself. You’d had to push back your presentation at the symposium, had found it too painful to sit at your desk for the long stretches it would take to be prepared. Your supervisor had insisted you take time off, that your PhD could be extended, and you had balked at the idea and then, eventually, conceded that too. Your stupid frozen shoulder was icing out everything in your life you cared about. You suggested to your physio you might like to swim.

--

It had been a while since you’d been in a bathing suit. Glad you’d at least thought to shave, you went into the change room dreading coming out again. You’d deliberately gone at 2 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, figuring the only people there would be either 100 years old or ladened with babies, and their bodies wouldn’t be so threatening to yours. You remembered a time when your body had felt strong, when your legs had carried you around European cities, up and down mountains. You wondered where that girl went.

You were a careful person, and you liked rules, so you shuffled as speedily as you could towards the pool, careful not to run. Your brother had slipped once, aged 9 and a half, and knocked out two of his teeth when he went down. Your mother had to wait three months to get them fixed, having to save up the fee, and your brother had whistled slightly on windy mornings. You’d teased him about it, and you felt bad about it now, holding your arm tight to your body so as not to jostle your shoulder.

The water was cool, and you took the stairs one at a time to get yourself into it. You gasped when it reached your belly, reaching down to splash yourself to try and acclimatise. It wasn’t an especially warm day, but the sun was out and it was warm enough on your skin. You sunk down, feeling the water lap at your shoulder. The relief was immediate, the cool spreading over your strangled nerves, and you let out a sigh. You didn’t think you were about to swim any laps, but it was enough to bob around in the shallow end and feel the water carry your weight. Your mind was quiet for the first time in a while. You watched two birds glide on the breeze, ducking down to skim over the surface. You hoped they didn’t shit in it as they passed.

Then, a giggle. A tittering, high-pitched thing that shattered your reverie and made you turn towards it, a scowl on your face as you looked up into the sun. A woman in a high-cut bikini straight out of the 80s was standing at the base of the lifeguard’s chair, looking up at the man sitting atop it. She was practically drooling, flipping her hair and nearly slipping out of her top. You couldn’t make him out, the glare casting him in darkness and too proud to shield your eyes with your hand to get a good look. She had all her weight on one foot so she could thrust her hip out and her chest up. You heard his voice rumble out of his chest, deep and heavy and surprisingly kind. You couldn’t make out the words. You reminded yourself you didn’t care.

--

Your physio was proud of you, and you wanted to hate her for that, too. You reported your attendance at the pool, lied about doing your exercises, and paid another $24.95 for another rubber band thing after you pretended you’d misplaced the first one. You knew exactly where it was, on the doorknob where you’d tied it the first night and then ignored it. But it was a good, if expensive, excuse.

The next time you went to the pool you chose a time slightly earlier in the day, hoping that the midday sun might tan you a little as you rehabilitated. You bobbed around again in the shallow end, experimentally rolling your shoulders and moving your arms in small semi-circles in front of you. The water carried the weight so you could just focus on moving the joint, and when the ache set in you could just float there, let the water carry you completely as you floated on the surface. With your face to the sky and the sun beating down the whole world turned bright and colourless. It sanded down the sharp edges, turned the detail to pulsing fuzz on your retinas.

80’s Bikini Lady didn’t resurface, but you got out when an entire class of 4th graders arrived for their swimming lessons. As you went for your towel you heard that rumbling voice again, booming out over the top of 20 excited kids, instructing them to quiet down so he could teach them to tread water. You wondered if that was what you were doing now, your research and your thesis gathering metaphoric dust on your laptop. Treading water.

--

It took you until your fifth visit to try an actual lap. Your shoulder had been feeling lighter, the joint freeing itself under the water just enough that you could bear the weight of the it as you moved. You had been experimenting with little half breaststrokes, just two or three with your head high over the water and only deep enough that you could plant your feet at the first twinge of pain. But you wanted to try something different, today. You wanted to make it down to the other end, even if you had to grip the lane rope and pull yourself there.

You felt eyes on you as you walked to the edge, and you turned quickly to see the lifeguard was at his station. It was early enough in the afternoon that you could see him properly, his aquiline nose, his curls unruly and chocolate brown. He nodded at you, an acknowledgement that he was keeping watch, and you nodded back to him. It was just you and a man in his 60s in the pool today.

You hissed a little as you descended the stairs, feeling goosebumps rise on your skin. Today it was cloudy, and the water was cooler than you had been expecting, and you worried for a moment it would be bad for your shoulder somehow, that your muscles would be less malleable, less cooperative, in the cold. You swallowed, wondering if you really wanted to do this today. Then you remembered your thesis, and the way you had thrown yourself on dancefloors, in spin classes, ridden boys in your dorm room like your hips would never ache. You wanted that girl back. She was at the other end of the pool.

You pushed off, holding your arms straight out in front of you and using your feet against the wall of the pool to propel yourself forward, letting the momentum drift you the first few feet. With a brave breath in you spread your arms wide in a breaststroke, kicking with your legs to keep up some sort of speed. Three strokes, then four, then five and you were nearly a quarter of the way down the pool already. You just had to keep breathing, stick with it, pace yourself out. You cupped the water with your hands, pushing it away from your chest as you moved. There might have been a little twinge, but you banished any worry. You were doing it, if slowly, if gingerly.

You swam over the point where the bottom of the pool fell away, past the point where you could stand. The water felt cooler, the depth of it stealing some of the warmth, and you felt a little warning tingle up your elbow. Your neck pulled a little to the right to try and dodge the pain, and you faltered a little, lost some of your rhythm. In your surprise you’d opened your mouth and taken in a little bit of water, and you spluttered.

Suddenly your arms were out of sequence, and you were struggling to bring them back together in front of you while kicking with your legs. They felt uncooperative, like they were on different strings, and you were finding it hard to keep your neck bent up high enough to keep your face out of the water completely. You jerked to try and regain your momentum, and sent an electric shock through your shoulder, pain spreading out all the way down to your wrist. You gasped, the pain making you pull your arm into your body, trying to cradle it against your chest, and you started floundering, your nose and mouth dropping beneath the surface as you struggled to stay upright. You swatted at the surface of the water with your good arm, panic in your chest, as you tried to figure out if it was better to turn and head back to the shallows or carry on to the other end.

You heard a splash behind you, a huff of air as a body broke the surface and then an arm around your waist.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said, and you leant back into the warm body behind you, trying to suck in air.

‘My shoulder, my arm,’ you cried, keeping it tucked against you as the lifeguard pulled you to where you could stand. You gasped, choking a little on water but mostly just from shock, your face burning red with humiliation and the pain of your throbbing collarbone. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said, suddenly feeling like you wanted to cry, as you caught your breath, the man still holding you gently around the waist and leaning down to study your face.

‘You’re OK, you’re OK,’ he said, his voice like warm honey as it oozed over the panic in your brain. ‘Take a breath, I’ve got you.’

Oh fuck, you were definitely going to cry if he kept being so nice to you. You felt heat in the back of your eyes, bit down on your bottom lip so he couldn’t see it wobbling.

‘I just wanted to swim a lap,’ you said, and you could hear the desperation in it, feeling as small as a child.

‘You injured?’ he asked, and you nodded. He tugged you further towards the shallow end, led you by the good arm over to the steps.

‘My physio said exercise would help it,’ you explained, throwing her soundly under the bus. ‘I just…I thought I was ready.’ You felt the frustration bubbling over. You had a terrible habit of getting teary when you were mad. ‘It’s just been so shit, and I wanted to…I just don’t even know this body anymore, you know?’ you complained, wincing when you realised you’d just trauma dumped on him.

‘Can’t rush these things,’ he said, unfazed. ‘Gotta take it at your own pace.’ Standing up in this part of the pool the water only came to his waist, and he gestured to his belly where a jagged scar punctured his left side.

‘Jesus,’ you said, at the sight of it and also realising for the first time he was shirtless, water running in rivulets down his golden skin. He was so broad it was no wonder he’d managed to get to you in the centre of the pool in all of three strokes. You felt yourself start to tremble, and you weren’t sure it was from shock.

You’d known, of course, that he was handsome. You had eyes, after all. But up close, standing over you, hair slicked back as his brown eyes roamed your face for any sign of distress…up close, he was devastating.

‘Joel,’ he said, holding out his hand, and you took it, awkward and shy. He told you he liked your name when you mumbled it to him, and you realised he was very good at his job. You wondered where you could find an 80s bikini.

‘Thank you, Joel,’ you said, when your heart had finally settled back into its normal rhythm. ‘I’m sorry you had to…’

‘Trust me, pulling beautiful women out of the deep end is not the hard part of my job,’ he said, and then you watched as his eyes widened, like he was only just realising what he’d said, and you felt heat crawl up your cheeks.

You wanted to ask him what the hard part was. You restrained yourself, because you’d been humiliated enough for one day.

--

You skipped your next session at the pool, instead using the rubber stretchy thing to try and elongate the joint. It didn’t feel as good, and you nearly snapped it into your face more than once, and you definitely didn’t think about Joel’s golden skin glistening in the sunlight the entire time you did it. You didn’t think about his arm banding around you as he pulled you to safety, not even a little bit. The rubber thing was fine. It was going to solve all your problems.

--

You hated the fucking rubber stretchy thing. For one, it smelled like condoms but in a weirdly stale kind of way, and for two you were fairly sure it was going to rip your door off its hinges in your crappy little apartment, and you really didn’t want to have to call your landlord when that happened. It might mean you’d have to tidy up.

Also, it was late Spring and pretty soon school would be out, and the pool would be heaving, and so you had to get your shoulder back to normal as soon as possible before the place got flooded with kids. The bikini you fished out from behind a bunch of old clothes in the back of your closet was so that you could move your shoulder more freely. You were being pragmatic. You were planning ahead.

It was hotter again, the warmth of summer encroaching, and you were genuinely relieved to see the sparkling, clear water when you arrived on the pool deck. You walked, head held high and chest out just a little, past the lifeguard chair, studiously not looking but also really trying to look. You spent an extra few seconds fishing around in your back for your sunscreen, trying to steady your pulse. When you swivelled around, preparing to smear it over yourself, you glanced over at the chair.

Unless Joel had aged 20 years in the week since you’d been, and gained forty pounds and lost all of his hair, he was not on shift today. You felt yourself deflate, your shoulders slumping, your left collarbone sending out a thrum of pain in warning.

It was probably for the best, of course. You were here to do rehab. This was serious medical stuff.

You didn’t want to hazard another lap, not with Beergut McBaldALot on patrol, so you floated a bit in the shallow end and practiced making circles with your arms. You were stiff, having taken a week off to whip yourself up into a pointless frenzy over the lifeguard. The water eased some of the tension in the muscle, and you once again felt your mind start to still.

You wondered if, on his down time, Joel preferred board shorts or speedos. You couldn’t imagine him in a full banana hammock – you could, but you didn’t want to – but you wondered if he was a Daniel-Crag-In-His-First-Bond-Movie-When-He-Emerges-From-The-Ocean-Booty-Shorts kind of guy. That didn’t feel right either, though. His work uniform was boardies, and you decided that Joel was the type of guy who just wore them on his own time anyway, because they fit and they were on hand. As for what was going on underneath them. Well, that was something else entirely.

As you bobbed in the water you imagined his strong arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest and letting you rest your head on his broad, tanned shoulder. You wondered if you’d be able to feel his heartbeat on your cheek, if that close you could hear his tight little exhales as he glided you through the water, held you up so that you could finally, finally let go. You sighed a little to yourself, drifting in the middle of the pool and hoping no one had any plans to swim any laps. You let your hair trail out behind you as you drifted, imagined the slight pull of the water was his fingers threading through.

--

You weren’t hungry but you had nothing at home, so you stopped off at the grocery store on the way home, your shoulder feeling better for having had a little bit of movement. Sleepy from the warmth of the sun and your weightlessness, you barely noticed the man standing at the end of the cereal aisle until you were tripping over him, his arm shooting out to catch you before you could really, properly fall.

‘Ooof,’ he exclaimed, and you knew that voice, felt the furious rush of blood to your cheeks as you righted yourself and were met with the same warm, brown eyes.

‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ he said, smiling down at you, and he was just as beautiful on dry land as he was submerged. You felt your hands start to tremble and you worried you’d drop your basket.

‘Joel,’ you said, trying to hide the comingling shame and excitement on your face. ‘You look different when you’re wet.’

Murder you. End it now. It would simply be kinder.

Joel, to his credit, just laughed a little.

‘Hair’s a lot fluffier,’ he said, reaching up to tug at it and making you want to chew on your own fist.

‘There’s that,’ you said, your voice oddly strangled.

‘You breakfast shoppin’ at 4 in the afternoon?’ he asked, gesturing to the cereal box in your hands.

‘Dinner, actually,’ you said, strangely proud at your sheer level of disfunction. ‘Ever since my shoulder, cooking hasn’t really been…’

You trailed off. Your mom had sent over a couple of frozen lasagnes, and you’d worked your way through those in a week. For a while you got dinners delivered but it got expensive, and then worst, it got boring. Before all of this started there were some nights you’d been so engrossed in your thesis you’d forgotten to get dinner at all. You missed those nights, too. To be so distracted.

‘How’s the arm?’ he asked, and you realised you were cradling it again, holding it fast against your side.

‘It’s slow, and I’m trying to be patient,’ you said, honestly, and his brows saddled. He hummed in thought, pouting his lips out a little. You fought every atom in your body not to lean forward and pull them between your teeth.

‘Your physio given you exercises?’ he asked, and you nodded, avoiding his gaze. ‘You doin’ em?’ he asked, and you were suddenly really interested in the nutritional content of your Cheerios. He snickered out a laugh. ‘No one ever does ‘em.’

‘You speaking from experience?’ you asked, and he smiled.

‘I used to…well, not a physio but I did a little personal training, and uh…basically unless I was there barkin’ at ‘em no-one did what they were told.’

Bark at me, you thought. I’ll do anything you say.

You coughed, trying to collect yourself. Fuck, he was beautiful, but you realised what you liked most was just the warmth in his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. You trusted him, you realised. You didn’t know him, and you trusted him.

‘I’m pretty sure my physio knows I’m lying to her,’ you confessed, and he smiled.

‘She definitely does,’ he agreed.

‘I’m otherwise a very honest person,’ you added.

‘I have no doubt,’ he said, with a little twinkle in his eye that made you want to gouge the things out so you didn’t have to deal with them torturing you anymore.

Instead, you looked into his basket and saw kale, a bunch of carrots and a carton of eggs. You grimaced.

‘Please tell me you’re not on a cleanse or some shit,’ you said, and he smiled.

‘Nah, you got me just before I headed over to the candy aisle.’

‘You like candy?’ you asked, and he grinned.

‘Got a sweet tooth,’ he confessed.

‘Name your poison.’

‘Reece’s. The umm…the cups.’

‘The cups. A peanut butter man?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, that southern drawl appearing again. You felt it hit you like a bullseye in your core. You wondered what else you could get him to agree to.

‘A man of taste,’ you said. You were flirting over grocery items and you didn’t fucking care. You would banter about the phone book if he kept grinning with his whorish little dimples out.  ‘Thank you for helping me out the other day,’ you said, and he shrugged.

‘S’my job,’ he said, and you shook your head at him, swishing your hands in front of you as if you could push his humbleness aside.

‘Yeah, but you chose that job, and I’m glad that you did,’ you said, simply. ‘It’s a generous thing, putting yourself on the line for someone else.’

‘Always been a kind of protector,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘I can see that,’ you replied, honestly, and he turned his gaze to you, considering you for a moment. ‘Although I guess a lot of the time it’s just watching people splash around.’

‘Ain’t hard to watch some people,’ he said, gazing down at you, his jaw muscle twinging a little.  You felt your stomach do a silly little flip.

‘No?’ you asked, your throat dry.

‘Mmm-mmm,’ he said, shaking his head but not breaking eye contact. You wanted to grab his broad, golden shoulders and hitch your thighs over them. You wanted to reach up and take his curls in your fingers, pull him onto his knees and his mouth to your nipple, let him nibble where they pebbled. You wanted to drown the gorgeous fucker, just for being so pretty he was setting your brain on fire.

For a second the two of you stared at each other, trying to pretend the sparks weren’t flying.

‘That can’t be dinner,’ he said, after a while, and you realised he was talking again about your cereal.

‘I could get some grown up muesli if that would make you happy,’ you offered.

‘Wouldn’t want you to get malnourished, come by the pool and drown from lack of…vitamins,’ he finished.

‘Lack of vitamins?’ you teased, and he blushed.

‘Can’t have you wastin’ away on me.’

‘So, you’re saying I have to eat the muesli for your benefit?’ you asked, and he shook his head.

‘No breakfast for dinner,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can fix you somethin’.’

Your heart stopped, right there in the grocery store, in your flip flops with your hair still wet from the pool.

‘…’ you said, and he finally broke your gaze, finally allowed you to breathe for a second. He looked thoughtful, maybe even a little sorry.

‘Not professional of me to ask out the patrons,’ he said, after a while.

‘Do you work at the grocery store?’,’ you asked, bolder than you were feeling. He moved closer towards you, just a half-step, so that you could feel his breath ghosting over your face.

‘If I gave you some exercises, would you do ‘em?’ he asked, his voice so low it came straight from the Devil himself. You felt the jolt of want spear between your legs.

‘My physio might get jealous,’ you said, and he grinned.

‘As your lifeguard I feel like it’s my duty to overrule, baby,’ he said. He lifted a hand to your bad shoulder, holding it gently, supporting the joint. You sighed a little, the extra support releasing some of the pressure from the tendon.

‘If you think it’s that serious,’ you whispered, as you leant in towards him, his mouth hovering just out of reach of yours. ‘Life and death.’

‘I’m afraid I might,’ he replied.

His lips tasted like coffee and sunshine. You lifted your arms to rest them on his shoulders. There was not a single twinge.