Chapter Text
the good soldier
The nape of your neck is littered with goosebumps when you’re first relieved of your post. You nod to the approaching specialist as he situates himself where you’d just been standing for four hours, his blouse riddled with wrinkles and bunched up awkwardly around his waist. You couldn’t blame him for his appearance though; even though it is within military dishonor to wear a uniform so disgracefullly, the graveyard guard shift is one where your superiors would usually waive your lack of presentability merely because they pity you.
The commander of relief, Captain Kim, offers a sad smile as you trudged by.
“It’s getting colder, L/N. You should wear your neck gaiter since you cut your hair.”
You pause by his desk, allowing the last gust of wind chill from outside to seep into your exposed skin before the door closes.
Captain Kim is always a blessed sight on early mornings such as these. He looks pristine in his uniform, as usual, and dons it so professionally that it is no wonder he made rank at such a young age. His skin, a golden-tan, does not contrast the greens and browns of his OCPs (Operational Camouflage Pattern) but, rather, compliments the colors warmly. The photos on his desk display a young man in a burgundy graduation gown, donning black-rimmed glasses and a dorky grin. His hair was longer then, too. He proudly grasps the edges of a master’s degree in one hand, and encompasses his mother’s shoulders with the other.
Now the gown’s turned into OCPs, his glasses to contacts, and the ink of his hair has become cropped and shaved on the underside.
You blink after him, assuming the appropriate position when speaking to an officer. “I didn’t think you’d noticed, sir.”
Captain Kim grins and you flush under the intensity of his calculating orbs. “It is part of my job to notice everything, L/N.” His eyes traverse your body quickly, and he glances at the door you’d just entered from. “Also, you can relax with me. I might be stern with the other privates but you’ve been here long enough. You should know I’m not as much of a hard ass as the other commissioned officers in this company.”
You’re quick to stand naturally, your fists uncurling from the seams of your pants and your feet parting. “Yes sir, you’re one of the few.”
He smiles tiredly at this, leaning back in his chair.
“Go and get some sleep. I’ll tell your platoon sergeant to let you skip out on first formation.”
You frown, “I can make it to first, sir—”
“You just pulled a 0100-0500 shift and you want to attend a 0700 formation?”
Your lips clamp shut. Captain Kim Namjoon stares at you, like he knows he’s won. He crosses his arms over his chest and allows a fragment of pity to grace his lovely eyes.
“Look I get it; you’re one of the few soldiers with the actual bearing and military discipline to fight the need for sleep and perform all duties without hesitation. But,” He sighs, glancing at the clock on the stark white wall. “You’ve been doing it longer than what you’ve signed for. Don’t think I don’t know your situation. I talked to your company commander.”
Of course he did.
It was simple to state that the military had fucked you over. But saying that aloud would disgrace the force with which you dedicated your heart and life to. So you kept your mouth shut and accepted your happenings without question.
Essentially, you did your time in basic training, and you did your time in advanced individual training—the schooling for the job you were assigned to—and with that said and done, you should have been on your merry way to your first duty station or been faced with immediate deployment overseas.
Except that is not at all what happened.
According to your chain of command, you were with the unfortunate few whose orders had not been finalized—meaning that someone neglected to reserve a spot for you in a unit following all your trainings. Something that isn’t quite a rarity, but shitty nonetheless.
So you were, in essence, on a waiting list.
And you have been patiently waiting for three months.
At this point you would have been completely immersed into your new unit, job, and life. But as luck has it, you became really good at pulling the graveyard fire guard shift outside your company’s doors.
You became really good at standing at parade rest, staring straight ahead until your legs grow numb from locked knees and disturbed circulation, and you became really good at shifting your feet to regain feeling so you could stand for another three hours without becoming light-headed.
These are just some of the things that became your strong suit.
You also excel at going to the gym every day so you can pass that fitness test when you join your new company (if ever that occurs), and you also prove yourself worthy when it comes to being tasked with oddball jobs the supply sergeants have for you.
Really, you’re just a ghost, floating around with a meaningless rank and awaiting the day your name is checked off that list.
You glance at Captain Kim, sucking back a yawn. The clock reads 0508. You frown, rubbing the remnants of the goosebumps from the back of your neck.
“I guess this was just in the fine print of my contract, sir.”
The Captain’s lips tighten into a line, and he heaves a sigh before leaning forward in his seat. “Private, if it were up to me, I’d have you off and living your happiest life in a heartbeat. You’re a good soldier, and you deserve far more than what that contract has you for.”
A good soldier.
At 0524, you peel your socks from your feet and quickly tuck them beneath the scratchiness of your blanket. You fall against the pillow of your snugly folded rack and find sleep a lot sooner than you imagined.
You have no idea that in that time, your name is checked off the waiting list.
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Welcome, 68 Whiskeys,” A young 2nd Lieutenant waves a clipboard around, unenthusiastically. “To Fort Irons.” His dark eyes peer through the stark white bangs of his hair, which is surely out of regulation, and his shoulders hunch over like he’s spent too long on a computer. He looks bored, as though he has no business doing an introductory briefing. Something that is likely part of his job.
He’s kind of cute, but he seems like a crappy soldier.
The small group you’re situated in quietly listens, anticipation and trepidation thick in the air.
The Lieutenant carries on. “Welcome to the hardest part of your career.”
He scans the group of you, unimpressed with the future combat medics before him. You are the only female in the room. He meets your eyes instantly.
“Welcome to your greatest mistake.”
The gaze he sets you with leaves you clenching your fists at your sides. You know exactly what he is thinking. ‘You’re not gonna make it.’
And you challenge his gaze until he cannot fight the curve at the corner of his lips. Amusement dances in his eyes. He glances away, then, and you relax.
“I am 2nd Lieutenant Min, your commanding executive officer. Welcome to Foxtrot Company 2-12.”
Chapter Text
You’re too accustomed to the chill of winter, you suppose as you greet the outside world with a sweat. You’ve traveled across the nation to a land far more dusty and warm during the season than what you’re used to. No need for a neck gaiter here, but the length of your hair does prove to be helpful.
You run a hand through the brief length of it, disrupting the knots and tangles that accumulated in the wind. The training grounds of Foxtrot 2-12 are splayed out before you; litters half-buried in the dirt, accompanied by mannequins missing select limbs for the training exercises. Massive tires and various drags sit at the forefront of one of the courses, and you shudder at the sight.
You’ve already had your fair share of drag exercises—breaking out in as a quick a sprint as you can muster while lugging 280lbs behind you, all for the sake of situational practice. Being a combat medic is no joke, but who are you to say that when you’ve not yet been deployed and experienced an actual battlefield?
You glance to where some trainees are dangling from monkey bars. It’s the weekend, so it’s as close a chance they’ll have to getting away with fucking around. With your hands in your pockets, comfortable in the looseness of your baggy pants, you step off for the local Exchange. It’s chow time, but you don’t feel like leaving base for dinner.
The overhead sun encapsulates your form as you break away from Foxtrot, the smell of dust infiltrating your nostrils, drawing a sneeze. You’ve been here for three weeks, and you’re still adapting to the environment.
As you locate the sidewalk and make for the right direction, you think back on these past days, a subtle lining of moisture dotting your forehead.
a week ago
“Hey newbie,” You glance up, meeting the eyes of the second lieutenant. His dark eyelashes catch in the bangs of his messy hair. Currently, you’re bent over an examination table, securing an improvised tourniquet around the bicep of a mannequin.
Of course, you’re not the only new arrival in the room, but you know that he’s talking to you. You forgo standing at the appropriate position while addressing an officer to presume your task as you speak to him. “Yes sir?”
Eyes turned back to your work, you feel him move around the table until his presence is lurking behind you. You swallow back a gasp at the proximity to focus on the body before you. Second Lieutenant Min Yoongi peers over your shoulder at your victim, and you tighten the stick until the rubber of his flesh protrudes uncomfortably over the fabric around his arm.
“Why are you using an improvised tourniquet instead of the deliberate one?”
His words tickle the lobe of your ear, and once you’re done securing the wound, you side step from him slightly.
You glance at him before pulling your lips into a firm line, surveying your handy work. “The wound on his left leg is far more severe. He is hemorrhaging, so use of an actual tourniquet would be more effective to stop the bleeding instead of using his socks and a stick there.” You trace your palm over the since-placed tourniquet on the thigh of the mannequin, testing its slack. When you display that there is none, you look expectedly at the second lieutenant.
His lips are pouted as he takes in the body. Then, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, his eyes blinking lazily.
“Not bad. But what happens when you can’t find a stick out in the battlefield? Even if you handle the more severe wound with the proper tool, the injury of his arm could cause him to eventually bleed out.”
You know this, because it’s one of the first things you consider when assessing life-threatening injuries on casualties. It’s an easy answer. “Then I sacrifice my own tourniquet to use on his arm rather just his from his kit.”
Second Lieutenant Min frowns suddenly, and then stares at you. “You know it’s not authorized to use your individual first aid kit on your casualty. You’re supposed to use theirs, because if you do a shit job, and they die, you would still have your own on you in the event that you become a casualty yourself.”
“I know that, sir.” You affirm with a nod, tearing your eyes away. The idea of self-sacrifice has never bothered you. Shit, your job is running out into combat to rescue lives. The rule of only using a casualty’s IFAK to save them has always perplexed you; you should be able to use any resource and do anything in your power to help them.
You can feel Min’s penetrating gaze on your skin. You grow warm, turning to thumb the zipper of the med kit.
“I’m impressed, L/N.” You blink after him. Then he releases a breath and moves behind your back, to your other side, all your equipment laid out before him. “But you know,” He fingers some unraveled gauze, and you face him—there’s too much amusement in his voice for you to ignore.
“You were actually supposed to be issued two tourniquets at this station.” You blanch, your eyes darting to the sticks and socks tied tightly around the mannequin’s arm. Min continues, a chuckle in his words. “Where the hell did you find a stick in here?”
Cheeks growing rosy and warm, you hide your face in shame as you breath out an answer. “I went outside to get one… I imagined this would be a practice of resourcefulness.”
You sneak a glance and the second lieutenant is smirking, arms crossed as he gazes you down. You could see the sarcasm swimming in his eyes. “Good thinking, but we’re not barbarians. You could have just grabbed one from the supply shelf. At least you used his socks and not your own.”
You roll your eyes, peeling yourself away from the conversation. You round the table as Min releases a low chuckle, obviously amused with your antics. When he grows silent, and you’re working on undoing the thigh tourniquet to move onto the next station, you spare him a peek.
There’s a glint in his eyes as he stares off, mind churning with some unknown thoughts. A gentle smile smooths out the natural pout of his pink lips, and you have to stop to take in the sight. Normally, he appeared so disgruntled and burdened—eyes narrowed and spine curved in a lazy posture. But you can’t help rare moments like these where you catch Min Yoongi in a trance as he proudly gazes about the soldiers he has taken under his wing.
He doesn’t often show displays of affection, but when he does, you take in the sight wondrously.
But then he catches something in his sight, and his lips downturn, the glint in his eye becoming shadowed by a layer of annoyance.
“Park,” He calls out, and a soldier a few stations down hastily responds and moves toward the lieutenant.
“Yes sir?”
Private Park is about the height of the officer, with a timid voice and gentle doe eyes. You made the mistake in assuming that his air of consistent worry would affect his ability in a combat scenario; the fourth day of training, when the lieutenant was working the unit to the very core in field exercises, Park Jimin’s puppy-like nature dissolved into something menacing and brutal. He tore through the training exercises like they were child’s play, dragging multiple mannequin-filled litters across the Hell Pit as though they weighed nothing.
You swore, from that day on, you would put your trust in him to get you off the battlefield if you became a casualty. His medical skill, however, needed some work.
“Park, why am I three meters from your station and I can see that the tourniquet on your casualty’s leg is loose?”
The soldier’s eyes widen before he throws his eyes over his shoulder, his black head of hair shifting in the speed. You look as well, and it isn’t hard to miss. Aghast, he fixes his gaze back to his superior officer. “I—uh,”
“Private, you should know that saying ‘no excuse’ would be most beneficial to you right now.” The lieutenant sneers, his words so icy that you shiver in their wake. He stares down the other man as though he is a hundred meters taller than him.
Park’s lips set in a line before he bows his head slightly, his form growing small and unconfident. “No excuse, sir.”
To this, Min nods, pleased with himself. Then he glances at you knowingly, and you don’t understand the look until he says his next words. “L/N, show Private Park what a tourniquet is supposed to look like. I can’t have my soldiers making such crucial mistakes if they’re going to be deployed at any time. You’re supposed to life-savers, not fuck-ups.”
With that, he pats your shoulder as he passes by, jolting you from your reverie, and you meet the soft eyes of Park Jimin.
And though you have no issue in demonstrating what needed to be fixed, it really is an easy fix, and the other Private pulls it off with no problem after your mild instruction. But the lieutenant’s words keep ringing in your ears. “…deployed at any time.”
Jimin moves on to practice an improvised tourniquet using your supplies, equally as amused as the lieutenant was when he realizes what you did to acquire them. I’ve been ready for deployment since leaving school. But now that I’m almost there, why am I suddenly feeling nervous?
“L/N,” You shake away your hesitation to meet the concerned eyes of your comrade. He really is a good-looking guy. Maybe a little softer than what you’re used to in the military, but he is far more welcoming than most.
“Hm?”
“Come grab some drinks with me tonight. We have off tomorrow, and who knows, it might be our last chance at getting hammered before we’re sent away.” It sets you off a little that his timid demeanor is suddenly replaced with something masculine and assertive, but you gather that asking girls out for drinks might just be his strong suit.
You agree to the invitation, because maybe you really just need a few beers to soothe your onslaught of nerves.
That night, you’re biting back giggles as Jimin tells you the classic stories of his basic training days while you nurse your third beer. The bar is glazed over with mood lighting, a jukebox playing 90s rock, and an abundance of soldiers in civilian-wear taking in their relaxed evening with the glory of alcohol.
The mood is nice, you’ll admit, and a welcoming change.
Again, you thank Jimin for inviting you.
“No problem; you look like you needed it.” You swallow back some bitter-tasting beverage before you’re knitting your eyebrows and cocking your head at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say without an ounce of reprimand, genuinely oblivious to his words.
The man summons the bartender for another beer before taking the rest of his back in one short gulp. You admire the stretch of the material over his chest and the protruding biceps from his black T, and then you shake your head.
I’m getting tipsy.
Park looks at you with a grin, catching your gaze, and then he shrugs. “You should have seen your face when Min mentioned deployment. It’s like you saw a ghost.”
You turn away from him, fully prepared to deny the insinuation, when he continues. “But L/N, you know it’s completely normal to be afraid, right?” You can tell the tone of the conversation’s changed, and you shift in your seat.
Blinking, you nod slightly. Fingers loosening around your beer. He goes on. “Think of it—we signed up to risk our lives to save others. We’re going to be in the middle of a battlefield. Shit, I sure as hell am afraid. But it’s what we do. And I’m happy to be able to do it.”
His voice grows gentle, and you have to tune out the rest of the bar to hear him. The smell of cigarettes infiltrates your senses. You grow uncomfortable under the weight of his eyes. His soft, doe-like eyes.
“Yeah, I know.” You take back some more beer, but it becomes tasteless, so you slam it back down on the counter—a self-declaration of your fearlessness. “But I’m more prepared than ever to get the hell out of this place and do what I was trained to do.”
Maybe you slurred, maybe you hiccupped, but your words were an affirmation enough to yourself that you are more than ready to go through with this.
Jimin leans back in his stool, impressed. “I really should’ve known that you’re the one in our unit who doesn’t need a speech about courage. The Iron Bitch.” He laughs into his new drink as you gawk, suppressing a groan.
“Are they still calling me that?”
He nods excitedly, licking his lips. “Ever since that day at the range when you destroyed the target… Shit, forty out of forty, all from the kneeling position. That has to be some kind of record. You scared the rest of the unit shitless. They are terrified to fuck with you.”
The thought has you smirking. The only reason they didn’t see it coming is because you’re a woman, when, really, the kneeling position isn’t all that hard to master. Also, an M4 can be your closest and most trustworthy ally if you practice with it enough.
“Good.” You state, running a hand through your locks. “Heaven knows we’ll have to be able to kill out there, too.”
now
Your cravings bring you to the forefront of a small pizza parlor clinging to the edge of the mini mall on base. You stand before it, weighing your options, before you confirm that, yes, you certainly wish for pizza tonight.
And after you’ve had a good deal of it, you find that you’re not yet ready to turn in for the night. It’s the weekend. Then you spot the neighborhood bar from that night with Jimin and you find yourself sauntering down the way, thumbing through the mental drink list of possible tastes to conquer as the sun dips a leg into the horizon.
You don’t want to get drunk, but you wouldn’t mind destressing a bit. That same scent of stale cigarettes smacks you in the face like a brick when you enter, but you pay it little to no mind as you weave through the slight crowd to the bar.
Taking a seat, you hail the bartender and he quickly strolls your way with a welcoming grin. “What can I get for you?”
“Just a beer. The cheapest one you’ve got.” He nods, roaming to the other end of the bar. You feel for your phone, ready to check it, when a voice at your left startles you.
“So that’s your style?”
You can recognize the low, lazy syllables from anywhere, and you shove your phone back into your pocket, twisting in your seat to meet his eyes.
“Yes sir; economical and bitter.”
Lieutenant Min’s eyes sparkle with amusement and you look away quickly, just in time to thank the bartender for depositing your beverage. Min chucks up a number three and the server sets off to retrieve more.
Then, he takes his seat beside yours, the stool scraping against the wood of the flooring. You hadn’t seen him in civilian clothes until now—he sports a charcoal-gray long sleeve shirt, paired with tight jeans and doc martins. You suppose it’s a good look for him because the style is so befitting.
The dim lights cast shadows on his pale cheeks, and you thumb the neck of your beer, lips caught between your teeth.
“What brings you here, sir?” He nods to the bartender before firmly grasping his freshly arrived drink. He takes it back, briefly, an exhale leaving him as he places it back onto the counter.
“Can’t a guy get a break? Man, this tastes like piss.” And then he sips it again. You bite back a smile. When he’s done, he turns in his stool to face you, and you gather that this is his way of gaining your attention.
“Don’t call me sir. We’re not in uniform. It’s fuckin’ weird.” He looks away, his bangs swishing around his forehead. You quirk your lips; puzzled.
“I think anything else would be inappropriate, sir.” You test, coyly. Min’s eyes dart back to yours, but they’ve become darkened. You gulp.
“Trust me, I like it when you call me that,” He says lowly, his lips curling like a feline’s. “But for the sake of me not trying anything on you when I’m inebriated, just call me Yoongi for now.”
You survey his being and come to the conclusion that he’s already had a few drinks before your arrival. Though his verbal insinuation has you flushing. Your cheeks are warm and you tear your eyes from his.
“Okay. Yoongi.” You test on your tongue, and you gauge his reaction. His eyes are fixed on your features, something like awe swimming around in them. But he’s quick to shake his head, warding off some unknown thoughts, before he smirks. “That sounds pretty good too.”
You roll your eyes. Typical.
You suck back a breath, coughing lightly after smoke inhalation. Then you set him with your gaze, growing comfortable in the relaxed atmosphere. “How often do you flirt with your soldiers?” You don’t wait for his answer to take a swig of your drink.
Though you’re teasing, you can tell that you’ve struck a chord. Or not.
He scoffs; “Why would I waste my time on you nasty privates? You’re all the same.”
You chuckle, grateful for his light-hearted response, and watch the smile grow across his features.
“L/N, you’re a different breed. You know they don’t call you the Iron Bitch for no reason.”
You hum, knowingly, hardly surprised at the knowledge that the nickname has surpassed the binds of an inside joke in the unit.
“Oh yeah? Well, it was only a forty. There’re still a shitton of experts out there besides me.”
He shakes his head. “Not just because of your shooting, you idiot.”
Puzzled, you wait for him to carry on. Min Yoongi’s eyes grow soft and he turns away. He tips back the remainder of his first beer with a wince, slamming it down on the counter.
“You’re one of the best in the unit. The smartest; the wisest. Fuck, I was so impressed with that stick thing you pulled that I told the company commander. Gave him hope for his soldiers.” He frowns. “And you don’t let assholes like me talk shit to your face.”
You chuckle. “That’s just called being a big girl who knows how to use a gun.” You cross your ankles, a sweet smile toying on your lips.
A laugh that doesn’t exactly meet his eyes has his features contorting. Now you’re the one frowning. I get that he’s probably drunk but he’s acting weird as shit.
“L/N, the commander put you on the priority list.” You freeze as his words catch up to you. The commander? Did a stick really make you deserving of that? Yoongi goes on. “Some Captain Kim from your last duty station put a good word in for you, and now your papers are in.”
Namjoon?!
You stare, awestruck. Immediately sobered. The information is becoming too much to process at once, and you replay his words until you feel your heart beating through your bones. “My… papers?” A normally firm voice is now laced with confusion and, damn you, anxiety.
Yoongi goes still, and the feigned excitement that had been in his face is now replaced by an inexplicable solemnness. He leans over the counter, eyes turned away as he fingers his second beer. “Your deployment papers.”
You can’t even find it in yourself to ask anymore questions. Shock riddles your chest and mind. Eyes burning his form, silently begging for him to continue. To repeat. To explain.
But the solemn second lieutenant Min Yoongi only musters up a toneless sentence that leaves you hanging out to dry for the rest of the night.
“You’re being deployed overseas. You’re gone in a week.”
Chapter Text
Overlooking a vast wasteland, you blink into the sunset. It feels as though you’ve traveled far and long these past weeks, and you have to remind yourself – you have. This is new territory. A foreign land; country; continent. One that basks in sweltering, sunny days and rests quietly in cool nights.
Quietly, for the most part; last night during fire watch you heard a fire fight from a distant town. Though you have been told it’s nothing to worry about. A simple domestic conflict, which is none of your concern. The military is not an enemy to this town, but it is not much a friend, either. You are simply part of which protects it from those who mistake war for peace. The others who roam these far and long lands with mass weaponry under their silks, who fight to satiate the belief in bloodshed.
And so, with the evening’s sands swirling before your eyes, you think of these things, and why your country has become involved with this one’s affairs. Some say it’s because your leaders have a kind enough heart to take action and help. Some say it’s because your country is selfish and only wants access to the lands for their natural resources.
You have no opinion in the matter. You joined the effort to save lives. And as you glance around you, taking in the site of your new home, you wonder how close you are to being able to do that.
It’s been two days since your arrival to your first deployment station. Foxtrot 2-12 became Bravo 1-31. Some of the other 68 Whiskeys you were with at Fox were also sent on this deployment, and from here you can see Jimin from afar. He’s digging through his duffel bags, still likely having not unpacked much since arrival. You didn’t either, because it isn’t exactly a high priority as of now.
Instead, you are patiently awaiting the call to formation. Tonight you will be introduced to your platoon sergeant. Apparently, he’s been out for a few days on a mission. No one’s said much about him or what said mission entails, but you can take a guess that the information is above your pay-grade.
You’ve met a few others from your new unit. While most are infantrymen or any other variation of a combat specialist, you are one of the few combat medics at the base. You’re lucky that Jimin is in the same platoon, just a different squad, because the other medics are designated to their respective platoons within the perimeter. The base itself is quite small, with only one dining facility. There is one building dedicating to free time, and it has a few flat screens, some gaming systems, and two pool tables. You can see why it would be a hot spot for anyone not on duty, but you were always one to stick around in your own room during free time. Speaking of which, you imagined that you would have a roommate, but given the lack of females in the unit, you dorm alone. The room is quaint, and, surprisingly, air-conditioned.
A 12 Bravo, or demolitions expert, named Specialist Jung showed you the ropes earlier today. You’ll see him often, you gather, given that not only is he in your same platoon, but also resides in the same squad.
He catches your eye as your gaze shifts from Jimin; the sun-tanned demo-man dons nothing but dark gray sweatpants, and the orange light of the world reflects off a sheen of sweat coating his torso. He must have been working out, and you can’t help but to scan your eyes over his enticing features before standing to make way for your room.
But before you can round a corner, out of sight, his voice calls for your attention, and you halt. Jung Hoseok smiles widely as you approach, running a hand through his chopped chocolate locks. It’s almost like all the men on deployment forget about hair length regulations, but you can’t find it in you to complain when his tendrils curl loosely around his forehead as his eyes crinkle. You avoid glancing anywhere lower than his orbs, offering a nod in greeting.
“Sergeant’s gonna be back any minute, so if you’ll wait a sec, I’ll show you and Park where we form up.”
You agree quietly and watch as he bends for a T shirt in his bag, his dog tags clashing against his pecs. You swallow thickly and turn your gaze to Jimin, who has overheard the brief conversation, and approaches with a grin. He seems excited.
“Have you heard anything about the sergeant that makes you so hyped to see him?” You tease when he’s close enough, and he scoffs.
“Not sure about you, but I’ve heard he’s the silent but deadly type. As long as it’s not in the 2nd Lieutenant Min kind of way, I’m cool with it.” He claps a hand against your shoulder.
You frown at the mention of the officer, who hadn’t exactly escaped your thoughts quite yet, and you glance back at Jung. You spot a cluster of scars on the right side of his chest before it is covered with cloth and you feel a clench in your chest. It looked exactly like an explosive wound, one once filled with shrapnel from a tripped IED.
It looked fresh enough to have occurred during this deployment. You will likely have to treat a wound like that, or one far worse.
But Jung turns back with a sparkle in his eye and a smile adorning his cheeks. He seems unphased by whatever he experienced in the past, and for some reason, you are filled with immense hope. “Ready?” He questions casually, and the internal conflict you had momentarily waged diminishes as his teeth glint against the sun.
Your boots sink into the sand as you follow him, Jimin close at your side. You never waver under the penetrating gaze of other service members on base. Of course you’re the center of attention. You’re new; you’re female.
And now you can see them with their unabashed gazes caressing your body as you pass them by. In the civilian world, you would be riddled with disgust by such shameless creatures, perhaps even confronting them. But here, these are men who have been away from women and home for months and years. You grant them some more leeway given their circumstance, but when one whistles your way, you offer a deathly gaze.
Jung looks back just in time to laugh, and he flips off the other man like it’s a normal way of communicating while Jimin scoots closer to you protectively. You nudge his shoulder appreciatively with a quirk on your lips. “Don’t worry; they’ll learn not to fuck with me.”
Jimin smiles, nodding knowingly, and says, “I guess they haven’t yet had a taste of The Iron Bitch.”
You giggle quietly, and Jung throws his eyes over his shoulder. “The what?” He exclaims wondrously.
“You’ll come to know in time, Specialist.” Jimin laughs, and it seems as though you’ve reached your destination, because Jung stops and turns.
“I sure hope so. Oh! He’s here!” He points in a direction, and you’re shocked to find a youthful man with an ebony head of hair. “That’s Sergeant right there.”
He doesn’t look much older than me…
The sergeant is speaking with an officer, ridding himself of his protective vest until he is left with nothing but a black wife-beater on top. His combat pants hang low on his hips, tucked neatly into his boots, although they are covered with mud and pigments of blood. Even from a distance, you can see the weariness surrounding his eyes and scratches along his cheeks. And as though he can feel your studious eyes, his dark orbs lock on yours, and you withhold a gasp.
But you can’t break the gaze.
It’s entrapping, and though the officer still chats at his side, it seems as though he is miles from the conversation as his penetrating eyes become slanted. And he’s glaring; at you.
Then, he says something to the officer, perhaps a dismissal, and the two separate before he turns to spit into the sand.
“Sure seems like the silent and deadly type,” Jimin announces with gentle unnerve as folds his arms over his chest, breaking you from your reverie. He must have witnessed the whole thing.
Specialist Jung simply shrugs, nodding for you to follow after him. “That’s Sergeant Jeon for you.”
Jeon.
The name is filed away in your mind as you trail after him, and Jung leads you to where the Sergeant once stood. He informs you that accountability formations occur nightly at 20:00, along with any important notices or briefings.
Soon enough, more people from your platoon arrive to the spot, and though there are only twelve of you, it feels strange to be surrounded by new people in this new land.
Some of whom you haven’t met yet come to introduce themselves. All infantrymen or demolitions experts. It’s so strange, you think, as you locate Jimin speaking to another young man from his squad.
‘Kim’ you read from the name patch on his hat, and you think of Captain Kim. It feels like so long ago when you parted ways from his command. You shake your head, dismissing the memories, as you glance this new Kim up and down. His mop of ash-blonde hair is in shambles, and he’s got charcoal smeared across his cheekbones and hands, and you figure he’s just returned from the same mission as the platoon sergeant. It looks like heavy duty lead residue.
At your approach, Jimin nods at you.
“Hey, L/N, you ever meet a 19 Kilo?” You shake your head, eyebrows knitting in confusion. You couldn’t even remember that job title. And then it hits you.
“Wait; you’re an Armor Crewman?” you question incredulously. These guys are pretty rare outside of combat deployments.
And the man, with smudges lining his face, grins in a boxy manner, and nods madly. “Yep!” He looks so young too…
He extends a hand covered in filth, “Call me Taehyung,”, then retrieves it before smiling sheepishly. “Uh, we’ll save that for when I wash my hands.”
It’s a miracle you’ve met another experienced private with a good attitude, you reckon. The man drives a tank for fucks sake. “I think your job is bad ass enough for you to get away with dirty hands,” You comment, waving him off.
He laughs extraordinarily at this, his eyes lighting up like a child’s on Christmas, before he’s suddenly shifting his side towards you. “Does that mean I’m actually bad ass enough to have this?”. With a grin, he peels up the underside of his sleeve, until his bicep is revealed to you. And in a shoddy curl of blackened, permanent ink rests the phrase ‘Death Before Dismount’, something likely procured during his time on deployment.
You can only nod at him, your eyebrows shooting up, because you can tell the tattoo was not done by a professional, but he seems very proud of it, so who are you to tell him off?
“Befitting.” You state simply as he drops his sleeve down with a smirk. His eyes capture something and he straightens up, and you turn your head to see Sergeant Jeon approaching.
I’ve never seen someone walk like they’ve killed many people.
He’s attractive, yes, his golden skin rivaling the glisten of the sunset, but he’s got a coldness in his eyes that must rival that in his heart, because you’ve never been so off-put by the mere mercilessness in one’s presence before now.
Immediately, you are on edge, heeding his arrival, as the rest of the platoon simmers down.
The formation isn’t much more than a horseshoe around him, and Jimin stands timidly at your side as Specialist Jung elbows him to relax.
It’s quiet as he stops and surveys the faces of those before him. You can see his gaze stop longer on Jimin before it digs into you. Then, he says, “Have the new ones been issued fire watch shifts?”
And though he’s talking about you, the question is directed to the officer from earlier, who you now notice to be standing off to the side of the formation.
“Yeah, they had their briefings and introductions already.” He responds, and you glance back to where the Sergeant studies you. Closer now, you can really see the youthfulness of his features, but his eyes make him seem far older; like he’s seen shit that you really wish you will never.
You can only imagine what he’s been through.
“Good,” he says lowly, and while his tone is not deep and menacing, it is not airy nor endearing either. “You two are the 68s, right?” He raises his voice, and Jimin responds before you can.
“Yes… Sergeant. I’m private Park and this is private L/N.” He says with a smear of confidence, uncertainty in his stance.
Jeon huffs, and looks away. “Did I fucking ask?” It’s so quiet but the whole formation’s heard it, and Jimin gulps loudly, opting to shut his mouth instead of answering. Then the young sergeant looks up again, his eyes darting between the two of you, and he says, “It’s about time they’ve sent out some more of you. You hear what happened to the last ones from this platoon?” You could rally a guess but you keep your mouth shut, unwanting of the attention. Jeon waits a dramatic pause before continuing.
“They fucking died. Blew up. There bodies were hardly recognizable.” It’s so detestable and harrowing, but you dismiss it. He’s trying to scare you.
Chancing a glance at Hoseok and Taehyung confirms the truth in his words though; the grimness of their faces as they’re reminded of their fallen comrades.
You peer back to Sergeant Jeon. He’s reading your features. Trying to pick out your weaknesses. Your fears. You swallow thickly and confront him with the gaze of The Iron Bitch.
At this, Jeon finally looks away. And you can’t spot a glint of emotion in his stony eyes.
“We’ve got a routine supply mission tomorrow at 0630. First and fourth squad are in. The rest of you can dick around for all I care.”
And with that, he turns around, and the formation scatters. You watch his back until he disappears, eyes tracing the undeniable lines of scars peeking from beneath his tank top.
You’re a part of fourth squad, the weapons squad, alongside Hoseok and three others. He stands by to give you some instruction as to the whereabouts of the morning endeavors, and a pat on the back as a farewell. Then Taehyung invites you and Jimin to eat with him at the dining facility, and you follow quietly.
Tomorrow is your first official mission, and while Jeon claims it is routine, you can’t deny the rattling of your nerves. Excitement? Anxiety?
However, one question plagues your mind and draws a frown to your lips; will you have to save a life tomorrow?
Chapter Text
It is with a cold sweat that you awaken from a restless sleep. Panting; panicking, until you blink through the haze and discover that it had just been that dream again. And you have always referred to it as a dream, because although it often terrorizes you, you are too prideful to succumb to the enveloping fear of nightmares. I am not a weak child anymore, you try to convince yourself through panic-stricken tears as you suck in gasping breaths.
I will not be defeated by myself.
The sun has yet to filter in through the blinds as you calm yourself down, grateful that no one shares the room to bear witness to your moment of weakness. You swallow thickly, rubbing at your eyes tiredly, and kick your feet from beneath the thick, wool blanket.
You cannot yet determine if the air is cool or warm, but your bare feet plant against the floor and you draw a sharp inhale, clumsily scuttling over to where you deposited your socks the night prior.
The clock at your bunk’s side reads 05:12, and you figure it’s good enough a time to prepare for the day. Luckily, you didn’t have fire watch last night, so you tallied in at least a couple more hours of sleep.
Dismissing the remnants of the dream–those that linger even after waking, and bring a harrowing sensation to your gut–you switch gears and wonder about today’s mission. And you wonder about Sergeant Jeon, and if you’ll make a fool out of yourself in front of him. With a roll of the eyes, you blink into the mirror. Because that is exactly what just might happen. You recall the training that 2nd Lieutenant Min playfully mocked you about, the one with the stick, and you’re certain that a particular sergeant wouldn’t be so lighthearted about it.
When you’re finished dressing for the day, you glance over to the bundle of supplies you have prepared in a corner–the familiar bulkiness of the med bag and an assortment of protective kevlar: something you’ve only been familiarized with in training scenarios. Of course, you’ve donned the massive bulletproof vest and hefty combat helmet, but that was only to adjust to the weight of them.
Never before have you worn them to actually defend yourself against enemy attacks.
You stare at the supplies until your eyes grow dry, and then you make for the door, hoping to catch breakfast at the chow hall before your departure.
The sun is still hiding beneath the horizon, though one glance at the sky confirms that it won’t be shy for much longer. Normal for a military installation, early birds are already up and about, and you nod to the private on firewatch as you pass by.
Various unfamiliar faces pass you by, but you can’t miss the head of ebony hair that turns a pigment of brown beneath a wall lamp.
He’s sucking in a lazy breath of smoke, releasing it through his nose and letting the cigarette dangle from his lips. He looks almost majestic now, leaning against a building beneath diminishing stars, surrounded by a cloud of gas that you would normally find nauseating, but for him, it’s only befitting. Shadows curl around his exposed biceps, and the scars you saw the evening prior seem to swirl under the dim lighting, like slithering snakes caressing his build. And the boyish features of his side profile, his cheeks and lips, are only enhanced by the dawn–they become leaner, more masculine.
You’re not that far from him, and it’s only a brief moment that your footing hesitates to take in his enigmatic presence, but it’s long enough for him to notice you.
“I hear pictures last longer.”
You freeze, eyes widening and saying nothing.
The eye you can see slowly shifts towards you, and it’s the only part of Jeon that moves, aside from the cigarette at his lips; it tips back as he sucks from it some more, the fiery end of it burning like an old star.
It’s almost menacing, the way the shadow casts over his only exposed orb, and how it becomes even darker when it lands on you.
He releases a puff of smoke, and it curls with the invisible breeze like a vine in the air. Then he leans back, sighing quietly. “But I guess it’s not worth it to bring a camera to a place where all you see is sand.”
He finally turns his face to you, and you can barely catch the maneuver of his eyes over your form before they’re digging into your skull.
“If someone gets hurt today… you gonna fuck up?”
His voice is low and brings a shiver down your spine.
Quickly, you assume the appropriate position when addressing a superior, and you stare him down. “No, Sergeant.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, his fingers coming up to pinch the cigarette from his lips before he’s dousing it in the sand at his feet. All the while still maintaining eye contact.
His head tilts back, then, and a flare of amusement catches in his eyes, as does a glint from the light above, before he reverts back to his stony self.
“It’s been a while since someone talked to me like that.” He gestures to your stance with a jut of his chin, and you trace the angle of his jaw with your eyes, before puzzlement fills them and you look at him in question.
“Parade rest,” He says slowly, his features twisting away from your form as he stares forward. “You must be one of the goodie-good ones.”
Though you can’t hear the sarcasm in his voice, and there is no sense of playfulness emitting from him, you frown inwardly. It’s not the first time someone’s called you a goodie-two shoes; a teacher’s pet. You only ever did the right thing, so what’s there to mock? It never made sense to be ostracized for being a good soldier.
So you can’t help it when you say, “Is that a problem, Sergeant?”, a lacing of venom in your syllables. Although the sergeant seems indifferent to your question, only glancing back at you once before standing and dusting his pants off.
“Hit time is 0620 for accountability at the take off spot. Don’t be late.” And he turns around into the building without another word.
You want to huff in annoyance, but truly can’t find it in yourself to be all that annoyed. Maybe he’s just someone who tests you. Who wants you to challenge him. If that’s the case, then you have no issue with facing him.
But it relieves you, in the slightest, that you ran into him this morning. There wasn’t much you learned about him from the brief conversation, but you do feel closer to him already. The best chance of survival in this field is if a unit works as one, and the best chance at that is if you can get him to trust you.
You turn on your heel and make for the dining facility, a curl to your fists.
I won’t fuck up today.
The kevlar puts an uncomfortable strain to the back of your neck as you lean forward. You curse yourself, wishing that you had worn it more before an actual mission. The helmets you wore in trainings prior were all for practice, and therefore lighter weight. But bearing the heft of the real deal is going to take some adjustment, you presume.
The position you’re seated in isn’t helping–you’re tucked into the back of a humvee, the vehicle trailing after the rest of the small convoy. There isn’t much space for your legs, as your med bag is stowed away at your feet, so you’re forced to curl within yourself, finding difficulty to maintain blood flow to certain spots which are being pinched by the vast amount of armor you’re donning.
There is a chuckle in your headset, and you peer through your eyebrows to where an amused Specialist Jung is cocking his head at you. You can see the twinkle in his eyes, and you wonder how a man can be so excited in this line of work.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” He gestures to your uncomfortable posture with the butt of his grenade launcher, his voice crackling in your headset.
You pull your lips tight and roll your eyes at him, attempting to stretch out your feet into his leg space.
Jeon assigned you both to the back of the convoy, where the supplies are stocked, and emphasized that the both of you will not intervene unless necessary. You wonder why he’s keeping a demo-man as a last resort effort, glancing between the grenade launcher in Hoseok’s hands and the M16 in your lap. And then you realize it is likely because you’re going to an area where civilians breath and dwell and attempt to live peacefully; it would do no justice bringing the big guns in when attempting minimal damage.
The other two vehicles are mounted with machine guns, at the head of the small convoy. The one you’re in is boisterous and bumpy, and you can’t even imagine the volume of manning a turret outside of the humvee.
Outside the window, you can see the early morning sun glistening against the mountains of sand, and amidst all that, the beginnings of civilian residency. The crumbling of blown bricks and the start of rebuilt ones.
You’re entering the town, you gather, and realize that it had only been about a thirty minute drive.
The town’s native folk pass you by–some children racing the vehicles as they slow down, some scurrying indoors at the sight of the mounted weaponry. You watch the people in awe, and your heart clenches as you see the masses of kids playing with a soccer ball. They look so happy, despite being impoverished and facing the threat of war day to day.
You can spot where some buildings have recently been blown to bits, some of which were once homes and stores. Grief fills you, and you turn away from the window and gauge the sullen expression of Specialist Jung. It’s almost like he’s thinking these same things, except he’s studying his weapon, refusing to greet the world beyond the windows.
He’s done this too many times for all of his smiles to be genuine.
You nudge his boot with yours and he glances up. There’s a sad smile gracing your lips, and you don’t know why you feel the need to comfort him–he’s a man, he’s tough, he carries a fucking grenade launcher… but he’s also human. So you nod at him, and he nods back. A silent exchange that has him relaxing in his chair with a brief smile painting his cheeks. It fills you with some content, and something stirs within you–a realization that even if these men aren’t requiring of medical assistance, maybe, just maybe, you can heal their emotional wounds.
That sounds fucking cheesy. You stifle a laugh.
The convoy slows to a crawl in the sand until all three vehicles stop and the engines cut off. You were so acclimated to the sound of rickety metal that when it becomes quiet, a ringing swells in your ears.
“Did you enjoy your first trip?” Jung questions with a raised brow, playfulness in his gaze as he starts maneuvering supplies around him.
You do the same, preparing to dismount. “I’ll answer that when the trip’s over,” you grin, grateful that the swirling of nerves within you can be alleviated by the specialist’s jests.
You wait until you’re signaled to depart from the vehicle, the driver giving you the okay, before you step off, keeping the door open behind you. You spot Sergeant Jeon speaking with one of the locals, and you wonder if he’s proficient in the language. You wouldn’t doubt it; he seems like someone who’s good at everything.
He’s gesturing to the small convoy and nodding at whatever the other man is saying. The other members of the unit depart from their respective vehicles, although the turrets remain mounted, and begin to head over. Jung appears at your side, adjusting the strap of his helmet.
“He’s the town’s leader. I’m not sure what else to call him, but Jeon says he’s in charge of political affairs and stuff. They have their own little military here, but it’s so small, it’s really just like a police force to take care of domestic matters.”
You nod after him, side stepping as your squad members begin transferring the boxes and bags of supplies over to where a group of locals are patiently waiting with grateful grins donning their features.
That warms your heart a bit.
“How often do we do this?” You wonder curiously, eyes going from where the locals move to recieve the equipment to where Sergeant Jeon actively converses with the town’s leader.
“Every few weeks. Jeon is the only platoon sergeant who volunteered to help out. Real admirable of him, honestly.” He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “No one thought he had it in him”.
You stare at the man from afar, deciding that there is far more to the sergeant than he chooses to display. Maybe he really does put on a tough guy act. You amuse yourself with the thought that he has a beating heart, eyes shifting to where children are giddily digging into a box of bottled water, when there’s a sudden burst of explosions–gunfire. You immediately recognize the sound, and so does everyone else around the convoy. Jung is quick to shelter you with his body, bringing you down with him against the side of the armored vehicle.
The spray of bullets seems endless, and you can barely discern the sound of screaming as your eyes locate the other soldiers seeking cover. Then you see Jeon, who had shoved the town’s leader behind a concrete barrier. He goes into a prone, instinctually popping the iron sights of his weapon up as he peers down the barrel of his machine gun. Your heart stomps around your ribcage as you watch him unload nearly a full magazine on targets you cannot see.
The exchange of gunfire only continues as one of the turrets begins firing its massive rounds, and you flinch against the whirring of lead in the air.
It seems like eternity passes, but the conflict is actually quite brief.
Someone calls for a cease fire and you finally allow yourself to relax against Hoseok, panting out a that breath you had no idea you were holding.
Some people are crying out–some of the locals, you reckon–and Jeon is firing out orders as quickly as he just shed bullets. You tried to stand, but Jung holds you still, shaking his head at you when you peer after him. “It’s not safe yet.”
And a few more moments pass before the comms come back to life. It takes you a second to register the words.
“…Three up,”
“Four up,”
“Five up…” That was Hoseok’s voice, and he pats your shoulder gently, and you realize they’re doing a headcount over the comms.
“Six up,” you muster gruffly.
“Seven up,” A groan in the voice, “Think I got nicked in the shoulder, though.” You hear on the other line, and it sparks a movement in you.
Without standing, and allowing for the rest of the headcount to ensue, you wiggle yourself free of the specialist’s grasp and duck your head into the open door of your vehicle, rummaging for your med bag.
When the “all clear” is given, you speed walk towards the owner of the seventh voice on the comms. You’re pretty sure it belongs to Sergeant Felmer of first squad, so you race over towards where he’s bent behind a mass of crumbled brick. True to his words, you see a flow of crimson erupting from his clothed shoulder. You can tell it’s a bit deeper than the traditional knick of a bullet, so it’s gotta hurt like hell, but it isn’t severe.
Excitement (?) fills you as you approach, ready and capable of performing your duties, until a horrendous cry diverts your attention. You halt, eyes darting to the side where a mother is slumped over her battered young son. His blood drenches her skirt as he cradles him to her chest, your grip loosening around the handle of the bag as she calls what is presumably his name over and over again.
Waging an internal battle, you look between the two–Felmer and the child. And one side is victorious. Without anymore hesitation, you bolt over to the mother, kneeling before her with your hands up in an act of peace.
She’s startled, but her black eyes lined with crimson veins assess the symbol on your helmer–the cross that dictates a medic in the battlefield. Her frightened eyes become hopeful for a second as she thrusts the body of the boy forward, and you gulp heavily as you analyze his wounds closer.
And though her words are not those you can understand, you know exactly what she is begging of you. So, with a heart of determination, you nod and settle the boy onto the ground.
“L/N, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sergeant Jeon’s voice barely startles you as you’re assessing the child. Without a moment’s hesitation, you rest your ear against his chest and, oh thank god, you listen to his heartbeat. Leaning back to dig into your bag, you stuff your hands into some gloves and gesture for the boy’s sobbing mother to move back a bit.
Sergeant Jeon speaks up again, closer this time, and you register that he is standing above you, his tone harrowing and dangerously spat through gritted teeth. “I asked what the fuck you think you’re doing, private.”
A flare of annoyance sweeps through you as you locate scissors and forceps. Then, you huff out a hot breath and glare at him through knitted brows. “My job.”
You can tell he’s about ready to argue against you, but you cut through the kid’s shirt wordlessly. “He’s dying. Can’t you tell? He’s not going to make it.” You feel Jeon kneel beside you, his voice quieter in your ear. “He’s going to die. You’re wasting your supplies.”
Quickly, you face him, your nose daring to brush his as you angrily spit out, “He’s breathing, his heart’s beating, and I’m going to keep him alive.” His eyes are more slanted at this proximity, and he glances down to your lips, where you bite back obscenities, before rising to his full height again. His features shift in a way you can’t describe, but no longer is he threatening you with his eyes.
“Then do it.”
With his permission, or without, you tend to the boy’s wounds. Twice, he’s been hit by the spray of bullets, but luckily they didn’t hit anything that would be severely life threatening. He must have gone unconscious from the shock of blood loss and pain. Luckily, only one of the bullets remained–buried shallowly beneath the flesh just above the boy’s left hip bone, barely missing a major artery, and you pluck it out carefully with forceps.
Sweat builds beneath the kevlar on your head, and you pant out in relief once the lead is removed and you cover the leaking hole with gauze and tape. Then panic swamps you once you realize the other wound is still bleeding without relent, and it hits you that he must be hemorrhaging. The other bullet went straight through, piercing the spot just beneath his right collar bone, and you get to work on plugging the holes on his front and back with expanding combat gauze–when drenched, it thickens to the size of the wound and conveniently closes it.
You check the boy’s heartbeat, leaning back with a sigh of relief upon discovering there’s been little change. He breaths stiffly, but not from internal damage to his lungs. His body is in too much pain for him to adjust to. Now that the injuries have been dealt with to the best of your abilities, you turn for your bag once again, rummaging for small, travel-size like bottles of pills.
After studying the labels, you put two to the side for him, one for pain and one to fight infection, handing them to his mother who gapes at you as though waiting for the final result. You merely smile at her, tiredly, nodding to the boy. And though she might not understand you, you say, “He’s going to be alright.”
You can see the gears turning in her old eyes before she erupts in a fit of laughter and embraces you like a grandmother meeting her grandchild for the first time in years. It brings wetness to your eyes, but you blink back the tears quickly, before you pull away from her. You pat her shoulder, and she praises you in her language.
There isn’t much else that occurs in the aftermath, except for when you finally leave the boy and his mother, Sergeant Jeon is nowhere to be seen. When you locate Felmer, he grins at you. “Hey don’t worry about me; I’m glad you took care of the kid.” He assures you after you apologize for being late to tend to him. The stubby, mustached man gives off an uncle-like vibe, allowing you to suture him up quickly before the convoy packs up.
It must have been a couple of hours later, pride still swelling in your chest, when it’s time for departure. Hoseok heard about your little stunt, and proudly claps a hand to the top of your helmet. “I knew I had a good feeling about you.”
You can only laugh after him, before eyeing the noon sun in the sky. The departure was delayed due to the events of earlier. Felmer had explained upon your services that it was the work of a few rebels hiding out in the town. They lived and breathed for the opposing force. They weren’t even targeting any soldiers in your unit–Felmer just happened to be in the line of fire.
They were targeting the town’s leader, something Jeon must have been aware of since he was quick to protect the man.
Luckily, the only casualties were those of the peacebreakers–that’s what Hoesok had called them. This town either consists of peacemakers, or peacebreakers. Or locals, who, unfortunately, just have to live within the conflict.
You frown at the thought, tossing your bag into the humvee and preparing for the trip back. It was just a chance that your unit was there during the attack. You can’t imagine how many people could have died if not. Which brings you to another thought. You turn to Jung.
“Why would they attack when we’re here?” He side-eyes you as his fingers caress his grenade belt, closing the door behind him and settling into the humvee. There’s a lot more space now that the supplies are gone.
“The town leader is usually never outside. He only comes out when we show up or when he’s got the protection of the military. Jeon says that he stays in the underground bomb shelter because he’s always at risk of attack. Apparently only few know where the entrance to the shelter is.”
You nod, knowingly. It’s a shame that the leader is targeted upon so viciously. You can’t imagine how he feels knowing that his own people’s lives are threatened because of his existence.
These thoughts dwell during the ride back.
Upon arrival to the compound, you’re starving. You wave to Hoseok, who says he’ll meet you for chow after a shower, and you make for your barracks room to do the same. You have an inkling that you smell of sand and sweat.
You peel the kevlar off your head before you turn the knob of your door, entering the room with a sigh of delight. Thank the air conditioning gods.
But your joy is short lived when you greet the being that is Sergeant Jeon, who is patiently sitting on your bunk and reading from the book you left on your nightstand.
Shock churns your insides and you swallow thickly, nearly dropping your helmet. “Sergeant?” You question, eyes narrowing. Talk about a lack of privacy.
He doesn’t look at you, but he closes the book and deposits it on the bed. He stands, and you feel inclined to step away as he passes by, but you can’t find it in yourself to move as his shoulder barely brushes yours.
“You need a lock for your door.” He states gruffly, under his breath as he makes for the exit. You stifle a growl of frustration.Is he really saying that when he just broke in? You assume parade rest and address him.
“To prevent intruders, Sergeant?” you bite out, not even trying to hide your annoyance. He stops, turning to face you. Finally, you lock eyes.
He asserts your position again, from your head to your toes, but you aren’t uncomfortable under his calculating gaze. He meets your eyes again.
“Good work today.”
You feel your shoulders slump and your eyes widen. Well, you certainly didn’t expect that. And there’s nothing else that is said as Sergeant Jeon turns and leaves the room, the door clicking quietly behind him.
Well how about that.
You want to brush off his meaningless words, because there’s no way they’re genuine, but you can’t help the stammering of your heart as you replay the sentence again and again. You remove the remainder of your kevlar and clothing, stepping into the tiny stall that is the shower in your room. And you think about today.
You have a feeling things are only going to get more interesting with the sergeant.
Chapter Text
It’s a warmer day than usual, and most of the soldiers of the compound have resorted to ridding themselves of any unnecessary clothing. Sweat trickles down hardened pectorals and ridged abdominals as you pass through the men. Shamelessly, they nod your way when they see you, but it’s more of a simple greeting than it is blatant flirtation. They know you now, as you’ve been residing alongside them for nearly a month, and they know that their charms aren’t enough to woo you.
It’s relieving, to say the least, that, for the most part, you’re being treated as their equal. It had always been a vision of yours to see the day where male and female soldiers operate on a single wavelength and speak a single language—soldier.
But that isn’t to say you’re entirely unaffected by the sight of a half-naked man basking in the sunset, with an orange glow surrounding him like a euphoric vignette. You pause at the glance of Hoseok, who, too, has traded his normal under shirt for barren skin, and kicks around a soccer ball with some other members of the platoon.
You and he have become close in the span of a few weeks. Granted, that’s normal when you’re stuck with someone on a deployment for almost twenty-four hours of the day. When you’re not sent out on supply runs, you’re tending to wounded victims of the regional conflict, and Sergeant Jeon has always ensured that Hoseok and you stick together for when your specialties are necessary.
And, as unfortunate as it is, you’re being sent out a lot more often these days.
The conflict has spread like a wild fire, and is nearing your compound day by day. Civilians and friendly military units have ventured to seek treatment for their ailing comrades, struck down by grazing bullets or IED shrapnel.
The local town’s military force would contact Sergeant Jeon, and it was always his best interest to be the first to send help.
Generally, the squads would include you and Jimin, the resident combat medics, Specialist Jung, the back-up demolition man, and a handful of infantrymen loaded with machine guns to ward away any trouble that might arise. Sergeant Jeon is one of them.
Your relationship with the sergeant hasn’t changed significantly, but there is noticeable difference. The way he addresses you is less demeaning, and more-so teasing. As though he is always trying to push your buttons and see which ones urge a rise from you the most. He always challenges your thoughts, and you no longer bite your tongue and hold your words.
You’re not afraid to challenge him back. And he almost grows excited by this. Something in the way his eyes suddenly twinkle when your words are laced with venom. It’s crossed your mind that maybe he’s got a thing for verbal masochism.
You’re not sure how you feel about that.
Some of the trips he would arrange would occur midday. Some would occur in the midst of night. But you were always ready for the call. When a private acting as a messenger would bang on your door as you were preparing for sleep with the orders from the platoon sergeant himself.
“Get ready, you’re leaving in four minutes.”
You treated victims with simple in-and-out bullet wounds. You treated victims with caved-in chests and collapsed lungs.
A sigh leaves you.
You’ve covered corpses with sheets and sucked back your tears.
You can’t save them all.
One night, after losing a teenager, whose skull was smashed from the impact of debris after an explosion, Taehyung, the comedic tank driver, found you behind the chow hall, apparently on a leisure stroll in the dark. You kept it together pretty well after the event, and you were even on the way to join the guys for dinner when the image of the young man’s battered body and expressionless features hit you. You cried hard, but silently, and curled within yourself. You didn’t want to be seen or heard. The thought almost makes you scoff; The Iron Bitch, caught crying in the moonlight. You don’t consider yourself to be that dramatic, but the truth leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You’re not so iron after all.
You didn’t realize he had approached until he was kneeling before you. Then, Taehyung hugged you to his chest, and you had forgotten what it was like to be held, so you hugged him back. It was warm, and he consoled you with soft-spoken words against your scalp.
When you recovered, Taehyung urged you into the chow hall, as not to arise suspicion, but you weren’t hungry.
Jimin was the only other one who could relate to you, and he could tell right away that you were stricken with guilt. He moved from his spot at the table to sit beside you, and held your hand under the table.
It felt good to have friends in times like those. The only people who could ever understand you are those around you; those living this demanding lifestyle and witnessing death like it’s an everyday feat. No one in your civilian life would even be able to comprehend what horrors you’ve seen. And that makes you a little anxious to ever return.
You shake off your brooding thoughts and continue towards the bronzed man in the sun.
“Ah, L/N! Wanna join? We’re doing shirts versus skins, and I need one more player.” He wiggles his eyebrows teasingly, eyes skimming your entirely covered form. Sure, you’re sweltering hot, but you’re too prideful to succumb to the assault of heat.
“I’ll pass, Jung. Thanks.”
He shrugs and kicks the ball to a young soldier you don’t recognize. You had initially come over to see what the commotion was about, as you could hear the jeers from your room, but now you’re kind of curious. You might stick around to watch.
“What’d you expect, Jung? L/N’s too much of a hard ass to play your games.”
You stiffen at the unexpectedly playful tone of the sergeant’s voice. You hadn’t even noticed him. You turn, locking eyes with Sergeant Jeon for a brief moment to confirm that it’s actually him, when his words finally catch up to you.
“Right, L/N?”
There is a challenge in his dark, unwavering orbs. It has your fingers clenching into fists as you dare to skim your gaze over the glistening skin of his neck and arms. He’s wearing a tank top, so you guess he’s on the opposing team. The tension in the air must be tangible.
Hoseok glances between the two of you nervously, “It’s okay… I didn’t expect you to agree anyways, I was just kidd—”
You’re quick to unzip your OCP blouse, tearing it from your torso and leaving it in a heap on the sand. A chorus of unmanly gasps surround you as you untuck your undershirt from your pants, peeling it off your skin and over your head.
“Y/N!” Jimin abashedly scolds from somewhere, his voice tainted with boyish shakiness. But as the air hits your moist skin, and as the sun kisses your curves and bound breasts, a hint of pride washes over you, as does childish glee.
You toss your shirt on top of your blouse and turn back to the Sergeant. His unwavering orbs are no more. They’re widened, and intensely tracing your newly exposed regions. Then they lock back with yours, and something between impressed and shock swirls within them. You smirk, standing proudly.
Around you, the men holler and hoot, playfully teasing and cheering you on like you’ve done something as amazing as save the world.
You grin, facing Hoseok.
“I guess you can determine which team I’m on,”
His eyes drag down your body and then his face draws back, a wide smile and something like a ‘not bad’ pulling at the corners of his lips.
He then laughs, guffaws, throwing an arm around your shoulder and steering you to where the rest of the shirtless team members are circled.
They cheer as you approach, jumping like giddy teenagers at a Katy Perry concert, and Jimin grabs your wrist and shields you behind him.
“Noooo,” He playfully whines, his cheeks tinted as the other guys tease him. “Y/N, you can’t be parading around all hot like that when most of us haven’t seen girls in months!”
You pull yourself free from his gentle grasp and swivel before him, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Jimin, do you hear anyone else complaining? Come on, it’s just a game. Let’s try to make a good time out of it, yeah?” You encourage, poking his bare chest.
You can see his eyes struggling to avert his gaze, and a flurry of giggles leave you. Everyone in the military has been forced to share showers, bedrooms, and be prodded by doctors again and again. You’re not the slightest bit shameful in your undressed state.
It actually feels quite relieving to elicit such a response from your comrades. Like they’ve accepted you as one of their own now, in your daring actions.
“She’s right,” Hoseok claps a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “It’s just a game. Now let’s kick our sergeant’s ass for doubting her!” The team cries out in glory, as though they are preparing for battle, and then Hoseok, appointed Skins’ team captain, spews out the game plan.
You played soccer in high school. Though you weren’t the star athlete of the team, you had more grit than anyone else and always challenged the other players for the ball.
So, with this knowledge, Hoseok has you playing mid-field. Someone who can balance the aggressive assertation of a striker and a defender.
You spy Jeon quietly sending off instructions to his team members, Taehyung leaving his side with a pout as he made for the improvised goal post—two metal posts standing like stakes in the sand.
And just like that, the game begins.
The guys roughhouse, and though they’re undeniably competitive in nature, they are still a band of brothers who goof around on occasion. This, you witness when Sergeant Han pummels Sergeant Choi, who are on the same team, might you add, to the ground after a foul ball. After a brief brawl, they laugh it off, and hop back into their respective spots.
And they don’t avoid you in the slightest. In fact, they display just as much aggression as they do to their male teammates as they trespass into your turf. The first time, you’re quick to swipe the ball from Specialist Conrad, kicking it to Hoseok before nearly getting barreled over by Private Stewart. He catches himself before the impact and sticks out his tongue, swiveling back to follow the ball.
Through it all, you can’t help being marveled by Sergeant Jeon’s play style. The golden skin of his arms and collarbone streaks across the field, the sweat of his head forcing his hair to hang in dripping wisps at his eyes until he pushes it back and reveals his glorious forehead.
You never expected anything more than the deadly, cold, stoic nature of the sergeant. And you can’t say you’re complaining. He’s competitive, like if he secures a win, then the wars would be over, and the world would remember only his name.
He had whished past you, too quickly for you to steal the ball from his hasty footwork across the field, and scored twice already. While you were tied, Taehyung not doing such a great job from his position at the opposing goal post, you were becoming frustrated with the number of times that the sergeant has passed you by seamlessly. Sweat paints your brow and bricks a slickness to your neck and chest, but you ignore the gross feeling and watch as Jeon approaches again.
This time, you think, you’re ready. You’ve already memorized the pattern of his maneuvers, and it has you leaping in front of him before he can suddenly juke. But you’ve underestimated his speed, and he tumbles into you, throwing you off your feet.
Before you can register it, sand is sticking to the perspiration at your spine, and a solid breath of air is rushed from your lungs. A heavy weight rests against your body.
Your head is knocked back into the mounds, and your eyes close upon impact. There are some concerned voices, mainly Jimin’s, but the rushing sounds of passing feet mean that the play is still in effect, and someone’s got the ball.
You make to stand up, but the weight on your chest holds you down. You open your eyes.
Sergeant Jeon is staring back at you.
Here, you can see the little scar on his cheek. How the discoloration of the tissue there is only prominent under direct light. And the small flecks of golden brown in his deep, deep, oaky orbs. The freckles dotting his cheeks, likely the aftermath of years spent in the sun. And the chapped skin of his small, pouty lips—the cupid’s bow pointed like a ship’s sails.
You pant heavily, and he does too, from the exertion of the back-and-forth sprinting in the loose mountains of sand. And it’s almost too deliciously intimate, the way his breaths puff against your silky, wet skin like an exhaust spewing hot air. The way your legs have spread in the midst of your fall and how he so easily rests between them, the thin material of his tank top doing little to moderate the heat flowing from his abs.
He’s holding himself up, but there’s little effort to actually distance himself. No, it seems he is just as drawn to you as you are to him. His eyes slowly slink over your parted lips and bared neck, your jutting collarbones, the crevice of your breasts rising and falling with each breath. Something in his eyes tells you he would want nothing more than to tear the flimsy, black material of your sports bra.
But then the hoots of the men wake you from your imagination, and you drop your head back to peer at where Jimin’s holding his head in his hands in shame—they had scored upon him.
“It’s not my fault I’m short! I didn’t want to be goalie anyways!” you can hear him whine, and the weight and heat pressing down on your body removes itself.
You look back to the stoic expression of the Sergeant, and the spell is broken. As though nothing in that heated moment had even occurred, he pries himself from you, and rears back to his knees, unbinding himself from the apex of your legs. But not before giving a whisper of a thrust. A roll of his hips. So discrete and subtle that you’re certain you’ve imagined it.
But your body shudders beneath him, and you bite back a moan anyway. A heat warms your cheek as you meet his dark gaze for the umpteenth time. You can’t read him anymore, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking, but if it’s anything to go by, you think the calculating analysis of his eyes is gauging your reaction.
And after a moment, the corner of his lip raises so slightly, you nearly miss it. He seems pleased.
He’s on his feet, and jogging over to his teammates like nothing even happened, and you frown, displeased with yourself for falling victim to his charms.
You sit up with an air of frustration, standing while swiping the sand from your back. Taehyung blinks at you, as if silently questioning what the hell he just saw from across the field, and you simply shrug, not wanting to think about it.
The game goes on seamlessly, and Hoseok scores the winning goal after a grueling hour of sweat and grind.
Enough time and glory has passed for you to somewhat forget about the occurrence between you and the sergeant, but every time you look his way, all you see is him on top of you, rolling his hips into yours. Congratulatory claps are given on your back, pulling you from your reverie, and Jimin and Hoseok collectively hug you to their sweaty chests.
You complain to them, slapping them away from you.
“Oh but you weren’t complaining when sergeant Jeon was all over you!” Hoseok teases, and your eyes widen to the size of saucers.
“Wait—”
“Yeah, Y/N, that was pretty weird.” Jimin adds, his lips pulled tight as though he were trying to be serious, but the playfulness of his tone gives it away. You try to defend yourself, to explain that what they saw was all just a misunderstanding, but Hoseok suddenly turns you to him, his arms clasping around your back and pressing your breasts to his chest.
“You know, it’s kind of fun to fuck with him like this. He’s so jealous right now.” He giggles, and you stiffen in his hold.
“Jealous?” you whisper, eyes trailing over to where the sergeant stands, clutching a water bottle with unnecessary force some distance away. He’s glaring at Hoseok. His hair falling into his eyes. You wonder if that’s what some people see just before they die.
Jimin laughs, bemusedly, and tears you from the taller man. “Alright, enough, enough. He looks like he’s gonna kill you, Jung.”
The specialist merely shrugs, running a hand through his damp hair. “Hey, the Sergeant’s never shown this much emotion before you guys got here. He never would’ve ever played soccer with us. I’m pretty sure he only did it because you were walking over here, L/N.” He announces, and the sureness of his raspy tone unsettles you.
You separate yourself from the guys, urging them to go and shower, before reaching for your discarded clothing. Sergeant Jeon presses onto your mind, but you can’t help but doubt that he’s changed that much since your arrival. You mean, sure, these days he does speak directly to you more, and he does make sure to include you on missions, but that’s just part of his job. It could also be a feat of simply, harmlessly warming up to one-another. Which is usually what happens when you’re stuck with someone for a long period of time. As you mentioned before, you and Hoseok are close now. Same with Taehyung. Maybe Jeon just has a different way of accepting you.
“Because he is my superior…” You reckon with a frown.
You opt to shower before putting any new clothes on, so you walk back to your dorm as shirtless and sweaty as the rest of the compound. Some of the guys who watched the game congratulate you and ruffle your head of hair like they would a younger sister. You shake them off with a smile, and enter your room without really feeling the joy in the aftermath of the match that you should’ve.
A sigh leaves you as you undress. Thoughts of the Sergeant are unrelenting and have you feeling warm and anxious. You want to maintain professionalism. You want to remain that goody-two shoes soldier that you crafted yourself to be. But as the cold spray of water surges against your features, you think that maybe the sergeant isn’t the only one changing. Maybe he’s changed you just as you’ve changed him. Maybe that’s why you’re feeling things you’re not supposed to.
And that terrifies you.
“Because he is my superior.”
Chapter 6
Notes:
Warnings: Lots of violence, Gore, Major character deaths, smut (this one is a heavy M).
Here’s a longer chapter to make up for the wait…
TRIGGER WARNING:
Major character death. Gore. Lots of angst. I am so sorry.
Chapter Text
In the mornings, you wake before the sun.
Traditionally, you eat breakfast with the boys, and then go about whichever trainings are necessary for you to continue performing your job.
And if you’re not training, you’re in the field on a routine supply run.
That’s what today is supposed to be; routine.
You now realize that you should’ve trusted the harrowing sensation in your gut when you had left the compound. And as you lock wide eyes with Sergeant Jeon for the third time in the day, you only have a second to panic before the Humvee is toppling over after an explosion strikes its core.
One Hour Earlier…
“Nervous?” Specialist Jung teasingly nudges his shoulder against yours. You really have no reason to be; something just feels off today. It’s the kind of feeling when you suspect an ill-happening, where the pit of your stomach dips deeper than usual. Where the quiet of the air is uncannily noticeable.
“Not really; it’s just a normal run. Today feels weird, I guess.” You admit, adjusting the belt of the M16 around your neck. He nods understandingly, commenting that some days he gets like that too.
“And those are usually the days that I realize I’m in a field where I could literally blow up at any given time.”
You frown after him as he laughs, the apples of his handsome, golden cheeks glistening against the early rays of the day.
Once the Humvees are loaded up, you prepare to depart, but not before a partaking in a routine headcount. You’re so accustomed to these things now, that you marvel at how little time it took to adjust to the deployment life.
“Zero-six,” You remark over the comms, turning in place to spot Sergeant Jeon loading extra magazines onto his belt. He catches your gaze after a moment, allowing his dark, demeaning orbs to swim in yours as he smacks a mag into his weapon. His deep gaze once made you flustered and annoyed, but as time went on, moments such as these became often. Especially since the soccer match a few weeks ago.
There had been undeniable tension in the air. Something that would make you gulp deeply or sharply draw a breath with every passing glance of his. But now you feel comfortable in his eyes. As though once his stares were meant to challenge and belittle, but now they yearn to understand you—to pick you apart with nothing more than mere consideration and curiosity. To seek any ailing or harms that might obstruct your sense of duty he’s grown so attached to.
You feel safer within his gaze.
“One-Three,” Goes Sergeant Yoon, who captures Jeon’s attention from you. He breaks his gaze, nodding to himself as he surveys the line-up of Humvees and artillery that are prepared to exit the compound.
“Alright, that’s everyone.” He remarks, his voice buzzing into the headset adorning your ear.
You shift in place, buckling the chin strap of your helmet, and you spot Jimin engaged in an animated conversation with Specialist Jung a little to your left.
You had nearly forgotten that he will be joining you on this mission. There hadn’t been much of a need for two medics to partake on supply missions, but recently, the ally towns you would visit have been infiltrated by hostile enemies who would disturb the peace. The rebels would see the convoy approaching and begin firing at the armored vehicles without inhibition.
The first time this occurred, you nearly had a heart attack, instinctually grasping for your weapon while cowering a low as you could in the back of the truck as lead pelleted against the windows. But Hoseok had assured you that you were safe—he tuckered down just as low as you, and, with a smile, jutted his pointer finger into the air. Almost as though on his cue, you could hear the rumble of fifty-caliber bullets shooting from the vehicle in front of yours.
“You’ll only have to worry when they have bigger guns than ours,” He had yelled over the booming rhythm of spending ammo.
You had been briefed nights prior that the enemy forces are growing bolder, however, and Sergeant Jeon made it known that more precautions will have been made to take preventative measures.
Such as new routes; the last mission to the town you will be journeying to today resulted in nearly rolling over a well-placed IED, freshly planted. The feeling in your chest when the Specialist at the head of the convoy had identified it just before driving over it is was inexplicable. But the notion that the enemies have recently discovered the supply route and attempted to compromise the convoy makes you anxious. Sergeant Jeon, too, apparently, who refuses to cease the supply runs, but will only do so by trekking into new territories to get there.
It’s as much of a risk as it is to take the original route.
You try to shrug off the weight of worry on your shoulders, managing to jostle your medical bag a bit as you approach Jimin.
“Ready?” You ask, keeping the nerves from your tone. It’s almost cute—the way his cheeks jut from the constricting chin straps, and you conceal a laugh. You had rarely seen him all donned up in combat garb. Jimin smiles and claps a hand onto your shoulder, “Always. This is gonna be fun; it’s our first outing together, Y/N.”
His calm words reassure you a bit and you nod after him, hoping to exude as much excitement as he does.
Soon, Sergeant Jeon calls for everyone to load up. You part from Jimin, as he’s assigned to another vehicle, and walk beside Hoseok to your own.
“You sure you’re good?” He stops you with a hand on your shoulder as you’re about to enter the Humvee. “You look like you’re having bad thoughts…” His head dips closer to yours as he peers into your eyes, and you wonder how he’s seen through you so easily. You catch yourself falling into his golden gaze, one that almost pulls all your insecurities from you.
But you only nod, offering a hint of a smile. “I’m fine. Like I said, just a weird day.”
“L/N, Jung.” Sergeant Jeon’s sharp words reach your ears, but his voice isn’t coming from the comms. You turn to him, backing away from Hoseok as the Sergeant stares the two of you down. His eyes flicker to the Specialist before landing on you, and you begin to feel shameful before him. If Jung could read you so easily, then there’s no doubt that the ever-calculating Jeon Jungkook hasn’t already.
“Get in; we’re leaving.” He merely says, and Specialist Jung moves to crawl into the vehicle. You’re almost afraid to break your gaze with the Sergeant, attempting to maintain some soldierly attitude. Almost as though enraptured with your aura, he sees into you deeper, and then suddenly steps a foot or two forward before you can feel his breath against your cheek.
“Whatever it is,” He says lowly, and you can barely distinguish the divide between threat and concern lacing his syllables, “Don’t let it keep you from your duty, Y/N.”
He dips into the vehicle as you’re stricken still.
He’s never called me that… He’s not supposed to call me th—
But in your head, you replay the word on his lips again and again until the startup of engines breaks you from your reverie.
You lean into the vehicle without further dwelling of it. You are a soldier. Not a hormonal teenage girl, for fuck’s sake. Get your act together.
The convoy takes off and you’re no longer allowed to be trapped in your own thoughts. You can barely hear them over the roar of the vehicles jostling against the sandy terrain.
About thirty minutes in, you realize that you had never questioned why the Sergeant is in your vehicle. Normally he’s with the other Sergeants near the head of the convoy, but you dare not ask him now. You can’t even imagine looking him in the eye again without growing flushed, so instead, you peer to where Hoseok is tracing invisible patterns onto his thigh. His lips are pursed as he ponders something, and you allow yourself to relax at the sight.
But then the comms ignite with a horrid crackling sound, and you can only catch a few words until the first explosion occurs. “…E-D FIELD!—CHRRRRR—S-STOP!”
The earth rumbles and the vehicle shakes, swerving out of the convoy line. Your driver curses as he slams on the breaks, but you’re caught on a mountain of sand, and you have no choice but to watch the other vehicles pile up as the first one is consumed by a mushroom of black smoke and fire. Gaping, you watch another swerving Humvee suddenly lights up, the doors blowing off as you catch glimpses of the passengers frying up.
“No!” You cry out, the Humvee jostling as it sinks down a cliff of sand, teetering on the edge of tipping over. It won’t stop.
Fear consumes you and you feel Hoseok bracing himself around you, your eyes instantly locking with Sergeant Jeon’s. It’s strange, you will think, that the moment he chooses to display an amount of concern is when you’re about to be blown to bits.
You have only a second to see the truth in his eyes before the tire of the Humvee catches a stray IED, and then everything snaps to black.
“There’s nothing you can do, sweetie. I’m so sorry. He’s gone.” Your aunt cries into your hair as she wrestles you still. You refuse to relent, kicking, and fighting, and screaming, and wailing. You’re only seven, and you’re so weak that you can’t deter her grasp.
Tears puddle within your eyes as you continue to take in the sight of him; your father, with his head caved in to the extent that you can see pieces of his mangled brain. His limbs, twisted around his body as blood spurts from nearly every jutting angle. The headlights of the car that had struck him surround him with a white glow, and his face is so overexposed with brightness that you can’t see his eyes. You’re not sure that you want to.
“Dad–! Dad, no! PLEASE! DADD—! LET ME GO!”
“L/N!”
You can’t move, but you’re moving. You can feel shards of something digging into your back as you’re being dragged. It’s as though you’re trapped within the grasps of sleep paralysis, without actually being asleep. White noise embeds itself into your ears, a ringing that makes you want to claw at your brain to make it stop. But you know that you’re awake because you can hear beyond it. Slightly, if anything, but at least you can recognize the voices. They grow louder as you’re dragged along, immobilized and on the brink of a dangerous sleep.
“…ou got her?” Sergeant Jeon grunts out, his voice echoing against the pounding of your skull.
“yeah,” releases a breathy Specialist Jung, and you feel your ankles being grabbed. The touch is gentle until it is firm enough to get a hold of you, and then you register the weight of your body battling gravity as you’re raised into the air.
More voices swim around you, shouts from afar, and the sizzling noise of crackling fire. Soon enough, the smell of burning gasoline and flesh invades your senses, but for some goddamn reason you cannot find it in yourself to open your eyes or move. To retch or panic.
You’re not sure how much time has passed when you’re finally deposited back onto what appears to be a harder surface. You hear Hoseok grunt out an affirmation to whatever the Sergeant has commanded.
“Just because this building is clear doesn’t mean the others are. Yoon, you still alive?” He calls into the comms, his true voice ringing into your left ear while the crackling echo of it sounds in your right.
“…He didn’t make it, Sergeant.” A voice weakly trembles into the comms, one you don’t immediately recognize to be Jimin.
“That motherfucker…” Jeon says under his breath, but you realize he hadn’t spoken into the comm. He continues after a moment. “Copy. Park, I need you to tend to the wounded. Keep a KIA count.”
“…Roger, Sergeant.”
“Specialist Jules, assemble any able-bodied soldier to clear out the rest of the buildings.”
“Roger.”
You hear him take a breath. “And everyone,” He pauses, and a shadow casts over your eyelids. “Watch where you fucking walk.”
The comms cut after a collective affirmation, and you’re nearly lulled back into the blackness until you register a patting against your cheek. It isn’t very gentle, but in your right mind, you wouldn’t expect it to be.
You struggle to even out your breath as you come to. There’s a certain rasp in your throat that rivals that of long-time smoker’s when you can finally release a grunt and a gasp. You heave out heavy exhales, the taste of smog fresh on the tip of your tongue, like the remnants of charcoal smeared against the muscle.
You finally find it in yourself to open your eyes, and despite being cloaked under the shield of a roof, you have to squeeze them shut to fend off the brightness of the world. It all comes back with brute force—the explosion.
The blast had blinded you, burned you, and thrown you from your seat. You were barely awake to witness all of that though, but it isn’t hard to connect the dots when all of the evidence is plastered against your skin.
You cry out when your vest is suddenly being ripped open. Instinctually fighting against the offending sensation that brings pain to your damaged regions.
“Hold still. You’re were fucking hit.”
Jeon sternly announces, and you can almost imagine the line of his lips drawn downward when he takes on this sort of tone.
You attempt to relax your thoughts and body as you feel his fingers against you.
When the brightness is but a shiny blur against your orbs, you try to open your eyes, and it’s all glossy at first, but you can make out the shape of him hovering over you, prodding at your garments with a care you never thought he’d had.
“Ser—Sergeant,” you croak out, blinking him into focus. He exhales quietly, and you see his dark eyes shift over your features.
“You look like shit.” He claims, and you almost have it in you to roll your eyes. “But I’ve seen worse. Hold still.”
At his command, he holds himself over your head, his fingers nimbly unbuckling the straps of your helmet. The weight of it rolls off of you and you feel your neck pop as he clutches the back of your head, guiding it to the cement.
Your head feels a lot lighter now, and, relieved, you sigh. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t respond, instead, he takes a moment to discard your helmet to the side, plucking the comm insert from your ear. It feels sticky where it was, so you gather the impact caused the device to damage the tissue of your ear canal. But that really isn’t your greatest concern when you suddenly recall the words exchanged between he and Jimin.
“Wait—I have to go—” you move to stand, but you’re releasing a remnant of a scream when your torso bends.
You throw yourself back down immediately, bringing your fist to your lips to conceal the cry.
Peering through one teary eye, you see Jeon staring down at you knowingly. “You wouldn’t make it a second on your feet, L/N. Don’t be an idiot.”
You scowl, protests building in your raspy throat. “Our comrades could be dying out there, and you want me to stay here? That’s not my job, Sergeant.” You bite out, making to rise again while your abdomen burns and gushes out blood.
This time the Sergeant is one step ahead of you, and he lands his hands against your shoulders, slamming you down in place. You gasp at the impact.
“Your job,” He starts, his face closing in on yours while his lips curl into a dangerous snarl, “is to do as I say. So stop worrying about them and worry about yourself. I already trusted Park with the medical shit.”
You narrow your eyes at him stubbornly before a wave of nausea hits you, and your head is lolling back down.
“Fuck,” you whisper, fighting the urge to grasp at your stomach. You can feel the shards protruding from it. While the pain is only minimal in your state of adrenaline, the sensation is tingly and itchy. You know just what it is.
“Shrapnel.” Jeon suddenly announces, as if reading your thoughts. He must have removed his helmet while you weren’t paying attention, and his hair, damp with exertion, falls into his eyes as he surveys you with nothing more than a professional stare.
“We got the tail end of that IED. It only tore up the front of the Humvee and threw us around for a bit. We got fuckin’ lucky.” He grovels, and you bite your lip as you feel him thumbing at your undershirt.
“How many did we lose?” You pry, and the question lingers in the air until he suddenly rips open your shirt.
“All four from the first truck. They were dead on impact. One more from the second one. Park is keeping track. There might be more.”
You’re grateful that he didn’t mention any names, despite knowing you’ll find out soon enough, but the knowledge that some of your comrades are forever gone to the world leaves a sinking feeling in your chest. You knew that this day would come. It’s only normal in the battlefield.
You hiss when you feel his fingers skirting around the edges of the pellet-like debris. Careful not to move so much, you tilt your chin down to watch him work. He has your medical bag at his side, likely having still been attached to you when he and Jung carried you.
He impatiently digs around the bag until he retrieves a pair of forceps. The hazy, afternoon sun reflects against them from the sole window of the tiny, concrete building.
Once he’s found the other items he was searching for—pure alcohol, cotton swabs, and combat gauze—he makes quick work of extracting the first metallic piece.
You squirm as you feel it fidgeting within you as he pinches it delicately, and to keep your mind off of the pain, you ponder aloud.
“What is this building?” It’s little more than a grunt, but Jeon hears it and releases a low hum as he removes the first scrap.
“An abandoned lookout. There are two more buildings next to this one. This was probably an enemy hideout, as old as those IEDS. Now stop talking.”
Your lips tighten as he drops the brief conversation. A fresh gush of blood emerges from the newly opened pit in your skin, and Jeon makes haste to tear a pack of combat gauze and plug the wound, but not before dousing it with alcohol.
You flinch, biting back obscenities, and then blink after him.
“When did you get so good with field treatment?” There’s no stopping your curiosity.
The sergeant merely sighs, shutting you up as he pinches another pellet with the forceps as you wince after him. “I’m infantry,” he states simply, “I couldn’t count the number of times soldiers have been shot or blown up beside me even if I wanted to.”
He plugs another hole, and the smell of your own blood brings bile to your throat. That mixed with the scent of pure alcohol… not the best combination. He ignores the groan of disgust that leaves you.
“It might not be in my fucking job description, but I have tried to save some of them. I know how to use more than a goddamn band-aid.”
You really can’t find anything more to say after that. Instead, you choose to observe the lines around his eyes, the ones as permanent as the scars on his back. They’re the only part of him that make him seem older than he truly is. The eyes that have seen far many of his comrades crumble to their deaths in his arms.
You can almost imagine it—the despair crossing his features. Almost, because it’s so difficult to conjure the image of his features twisting into agonizing sadness when he’s never held a fraction of the expression before you.
A whimper leaves you as he plucks the final piece of shrapnel from your stomach. You see his lips tighten at the sound, but he refuses to take his eyes from his work, his fingers deftly plugging the remaining gouge with gauze.
“Fucking convenient that you get hit in the one spot not covered by armor…” He mumbles, tossing the forceps into a petri dish he must have salvaged from the bag.
His eyes stretch over the battered skin of your torso, regarding the curves that are now tainted with burns and scrapes, and then he places a hand against the dip of your hip.
“Ow,” you hiss, jerking away from his touch.
He doesn’t say anything, only turns to pour some alcohol on a hand towel he must’ve found amidst your kit’s contents. Then he presses it against your side without so much as a warning.
“Fucker!” You can’t hold it back, but the grin of amusement is swiped off his face before you can totally behold it.
“You’re welcome.” He comments, snidely. You only manage a frown before exhaustion takes over you, and you allow him to finish tending to the burns coasting your sides in silence. It isn’t another minute until you’re accepting the invitation of sleep.
Hours later, you wake to the sound of more familiar voices, but to your relief, they are not panicked and coupled with the noises of the aftermath of explosions.
“Shit… Sergeant, why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve done it.”
“There wasn’t much to be done. She’s fine. What did Jung say about the evac units?”
Your eyes flutter open to greet the window displaying the near-dusk. It takes you a moment to blink away the haziness infiltrating your vision, but when you do, you’re glancing to where Sergeant Jeon and Jimin are just entering the building.
They take no notice to your wakening, and you make little move to stretch, the cement against your bare back not doing any justice for your spine. You feel material shift over your chest, and you glance down to discover that a blouse far too large for your build had been draped over your exposed form. One glance at the bare-armed Sergeant confirms who it belongs to.
“Specialist Jung has finally made contact with the compound… almost all of the radios were damaged beyond repair. Command is sending four rescue units, and they’ll be here within the hour.”
You’re not sure why Jimin was tasked with the job of corresponding with Jung regarding the rescue plan, but then you realize that the one initially in charge of being Jeon’s right hand was Sergeant Yoon…
Sergeant Jeon nods once, bringing his hand up to trigger his comm. “Evac’s gonna be here in an hour. Stay in the buildings. I don’t want to see anyone outside starting now.”
If you still had yours in, you’re sure you’d hear a chorus of affirmations. You groan when you turn to your side, agitating the tender flesh from the burns.
This gathers the attention of the men in the room, and they both turn to look at you.
“Oh, Y/N, you’re up!” Jimin forgoes his professionalism to bound over to you, and by god, you’re so glad to see that he’s escaped the wreckage unscathed. It almost didn’t cross your mind that some of your closest comrades were almost killed today. From the sound of it, Hoseok made it okay too, and that brings some of the weight off of your shoulders.
“Hey, Park.” You grumble out, struggling to lean up. You had been moved from the center of the floor during your rest, and now reside against one of the walls. Jimin scurries to help you sit up.
“I don’t think you should be moving too quickly…” He warns. The blouse slips down enough for him to see some of your wounds, and he sighs to himself, peeling the rest of it off to survey you. But to your surprise, his eyebrows shoot up and he spares the Sergeant a glance.
“You did this, Sergeant?” He questions in awe, looking between the other man and the gauze decorating your flesh.
Jeon merely glances over his shoulder before turning back to where he’s crouched digging nonchalantly into an equipment bag.
“He did,” You decide to answer for him, trying to keep the appreciation out of your voice. But still, if anyone today were to sacrifice their time to aid you, you sure as hell wouldn’t have thought that the sergeant would.
“Wow… Okay, good.” Jimin offers a sad smile, and you can barely see the weariness masking his eyes in the dim light cascading from the window. He stands up suddenly, “But I’m gonna replace the gauze. Those have bled through already.”
You nod after him, watching him turn to pace towards your discarded medical bag.
But then, in the calm of the quiet desert night, after a day with enough lives lost and enough tragedy to make you want to curl up in the shadows, comes the echo of a distant, recognizable sound. You wish that you could’ve registered right away. You wish that you could’ve screamed aloud, in warning. For what that echo means is the discharge of lead.
One second you hear it so far away amidst the mountains of sand. The next second Private Park Jimin is struck in the head with a caliber of ammunition designated for long-distance kills.
You scream out as he collapses beside you, instantly dead. His eyes stare at you. He twitches. You crawl over to him, your pain forgotten as you hold his head in your hands.
“NOO! JIMIN NOO!! LET ME GO!” Hands are grabbing at your back and you’re fighting against them.
“LET ME GO! DAD!”
“He’s fucking dead!”
“I’m sorry sweetie; he’s gone.”
You’re being grappled into submission, and you couldn’t fight it then and you can’t fight it now, even as you’re grown and stronger.
“PLEASE, I CAN SAVE HIM! I TRAINED TO SAVE HIM!” You feel the gush of your wounds sinking into your cargo pants, the gauze having been freshly dug up in your attempts to escape the iron grasp behind you.
“Sweetie, look at me, please!”
“Y/N, LOOK AT ME!”
You grow limp, your exhaustion and pain eating away at you. The memories subside. Your father isn’t before you. It’s Jimin. And you turn to meet the eyes behind the voice. They’re not the old, crying blue eyes of your Aunt Cynthia. They’re the cold, dark war eyes of Jeon Jungkook. And they’re wavering. You can only see it because you’re nose-to-nose in his grasp.
“I can save him,” you weakly say, without a notion of thought behind it.
But the sergeant does not hand you a snarky, cynical remark. Instead, he slowly shakes his head, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m sorry. But you can’t.”
Like a ragdoll in his arms, he turns you into his chest, shielding you away from the sight of your friend. You must be sobbing. But you can’t hear yourself. You only hear the remnants of bubbly laughter that Park Jimin once blessed you with. The ones paired with a luminous smile that always brought one to your features.
And then you hear the thrum against your cheek. The last thing you remember is the hammer of the sergeant’s heart, and for a moment, your thoughts drift from your fallen friend, and you remark with sad amusement that…
He really does have a heart.
Chapter 7
Notes:
SMMMMMMMUT. Dry-humping/handjob n stuff. Enjoy.
Chapter Text
“Y/N?”
Your head turns to greet the young man. Jimin stands curiously, his hands dipped deeply into the depths of his green sweat pants’ pockets.
“Good morning, Jimin.” He looks between you and the dawn for a moment, youthful eyes sparkling against the early sun, the normal blackness of his hair shining a radiant chocolate hue. You gesture for him to sit beside you.
“How long have you been out here?” He questions timidly, nudging his bare shoulder against yours. You turn your head to the side, lip quirking as you ponder the time.
“It’s been about an hour.” You smile tiredly at him. Jimin seems to assess you, then, his eyes worriedly scanning your features for any signs of distraught. You snicker at this, nudging him back. “And before we play twenty-questions, I’m fine. I just wanted to get up early, is all.”
He doesn’t seem very convinced, but draws back nonetheless. “Yeah, but on our day off? You never look like you sleep well.”
You shrug, too accustomed to thriving off of four hours a night to think anything of it. “We’re in the military. We didn’t sign up for eight hours of sleep.”
Jimin sighs, and you feel him playing with your fingers. “But Y/N… last week when I woke you up for the night run, I heard you crying through the door…”
This causes you to frown, and, perplexed, you face him, silently urging him to meet your gaze. “Jimin, everyone has nightmares.”
He grabs your hand, clutching it within the warmth of his own. His skin is quite soft, but you feel some callouses lining the pads of his fingers, physical evidence of his hard work in the field. “Yeah, I know. I have nightmares. We all do.” He states with a manner of determination. He searches within your gaze, his eyes meeting the medium between timidity and tenacity. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
He’s so dramatic, you think, your eyes growing soft. You smile at him, squeezing his hand with yours. “Thank you, Jimin, but there are no such things as fairytales, and I’m certainly no exception.”
Jimin relents, leaning back to gaze about the compound. “Yeah, I know, I know; I can’t convince you.” He turns his face just enough for you to capture his playful smirk. “And trust me, I never pegged you as the fairytale type.”
You huff out an exasperated laugh, “Princesses just don’t do it for me.”
“Of course not. You’re the Iron Bitch, for fuck’s sake. You’re more of the knight in shining armor.”
The analogy makes you cringe but giggle regardless. You grin. “Yeah that about does it.”
After a few minutes of comfortable, quiet peace, Jimin stands and offers a hand. “But really, I’ll do everything I can to take your mind off of what’s bothering you.”
You grab his hand and he lifts you to your feet with such ease. “Please don’t let my burdens become yours.” You beg, poking his clothed chest with a not-so-accusatory finger. Still, his efforts warm your heart, but what Iron Bitch would you be if you let the hauntings of your past affect you?
“I get it; you’re a strong, independent woman, who definitely does not need a man.” Jimin smiles, his tone light and airy. “But that won’t stop me from trying to distract you from yourself.”
You let him have his final say, the words ringing in your head. He tosses his arm around your shoulder and steers you away. “You’re stuck with me for as long as I’m here and alive.”
You wake with a sweat, eyes searching the darkness with mild panic. It takes a few seconds to calm down, and blinking through the haze of tiredness, your eyes adjust until you can make out a few surroundings.
The small building is almost a perfect cube of concrete, and with only one open expanse of night that classifies as a sad excuse of a window, minimal light is allotted entry. The moon’s rays gently cascade over the body lain just a few feet before you. You frown, but don’t really have it in you to cry anymore. You still feel the puffiness of your eyes from before you slept, and now only a harrowing sensation is left to remain. So you survey the corpse with a sense of calculative dread, noting that his face has been covered by a discarded towel from your med bag.
You’re grateful someone had the decency to cover him, at least.
And speaking of someone…
You glance around, eyes straining for a certain figure. When you meet his gaze, the whites of his eyes barely luminous in the surrounding shadows, you sigh in relief. He’s sat against the wall to your left, his head of hair dipping a less than a foot below the window.
“You talk in your sleep.” He states nonchalantly and with a whisper of weariness, if your ears had strained to hear. You release a long, unsteady exhale. Your neck had been awkwardly curved against the concrete, and you make a noise of protest as you stretch in place, resulting in a chorus of riveting pops and cracks.
“What happened to the rescue team?” You ask, careful to stay still and out of view of the window. Your eyes dart to it anxiously.
“Called them off for now. If there’s one, there’s more on the way. Odds are they’d run into a bomb too.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Leave it to one of those fuckers to pin us all down.” The tone of his voice takes a dangerous turn.
You nod after him, eyes meeting Jimin’s body again. So that’s it? Your group has been pinned down by one sniper, and you’re left to wait and see what happens.
“There’s nothing we can do,” the Sergeant says suddenly, as though he can read your thoughts; as though he can see the unpleasant twist of your features in the darkness.
“The only reason we haven’t been fucking nailed yet is because there are unmarked IEDs all over out there. It’s their risk to come to us as much as it is our risk to go to them.”
“There’s got to be something,” you’re hopelessly saying without thought.
You hear him click his tongue again and shuffle, as if to move. “Yeah, well if you wanna go parading out there and get your head blown off, be my fucking guest.” He responds without vigor, scooting himself along the wall to sit beside you.
You feel the warmth of his shoulder rest against yours, and you’re immediately drawn to it, pressing to his side without so much as a word.
The sergeant says nothing in return, simply allowing you to seek comfort in his touch; to seek something.
Maybe it’s because you’re still distraught because of Jimin. Or maybe it’s because the thought of the sniper suddenly opening fire again lingers in the recesses of your mind. You sigh. You really not to stop making excuses to be closer to him.
A few heartbeats of silence crawl between you, and you stare solemnly at the fallen man before you. If you’re still in here after a few days, a pungent smell will start to permeate. The gasses within his body will leave him to expand and bloat, and you can’t stomach the thought of having to be near him so far into the afterlife.
You almost dry heave at the idea.
Poor Jimin. The beautiful, creative, fun, world-loving young man. With so many dreams and a bullet embedded into his skull.
You wonder if his eyes are still open. You can’t see because of the towel draped over his head. It looks like it had been haphazardly thrown. Jeon at least had the decency to try and cover him without getting into the sniper’s line of fire.
“You said his name.” The silence is broken, and you blink away the dryness in your eyes. Slowly, you turn your head, barely able to capture the silhouette of his strong, rounded nose. The silence ensues, because you don’t know what to say, and then he continues. “When you were sleeping, you said his name, and you called out for your dad…”
His midnight eye shifts over to you—it so greatly contrasts the white it swims it. “And for me.”
This causes you to gasp under your breath, stealing your gaze from him. Your eyes widen as you think of some sort of excuse, or of some way to deny him, but you can’t even trust your own mouth when you sleep. Had you truly called out for him?
You remain quiet, drawing your knees to your chest.
The embarrassment wades knowingly in the air, and you hear a chuckle of a amusement leave your side.
“No need to be so embarrassed, L/N. If it means anything, they don’t trust that I won’t go on a suicide mission alone so they keep a tracker on me. Not like you were moaning for me, anyway.”
This has you gritting out a gentle “fuck off”, before narrowing your eyes away from him, daring to scoot farther from the man. In the back of your mind you know it’s not the time nor place to be getting flustered.
The sergeant is having none of it, though; he grasps your arm firmly, keeping you still, and you toss a glare over your shoulder.
“Don’t move, idiot. We still have eyes on us.”
His words bring you back to the depth of the situation, and you cease immediately, all previous annoyances and hindrances vanishing.
Jeon seems to drop it at that, settling himself back against you. Something in you feels as though you owe it to him to inform him of certain matters. He’s dragged you from a burning Humvee. He deserves that much, despite you knowing that he’s already tried to figure you out. But he doesn’t know every everything, you reason, weighing the options.
After a sigh, and a whir of wind outside, you speak.
“My father was hit while crossing a street by a car going 70.” You start, the vivid memories resurfacing in the forefront of your mind. “He was nearly decimated on impact. His bones were all broken. His skull had exploded against the cement.”
You drag out the following silence, replaying the scene again and again, and trying not to miss any details. “It happened right in front of me. I wasn’t even ten years old yet.”
You let the words sink in, but some hint of doubt tells you that the sergeant wasn’t even mildly interested in hearing about your life. But, surprisingly, he responds.
“That’s why you joined.” It’s not a question, you gather, because he already knows the answer. Still, you face him, nodding once.
“I wanted to save him. But I was a fucking kid.” You grit out, a flame of self-deprecation igniting in your veins. “I couldn’t do anything then, so I wanted to be able to do something now.”
You see him nod, the shagginess of his black locks dipping beneath his eyebrows. “Well, thanks for telling me your sob story, I guess.” He says dryly, and you’re half-tempted to roll your eyes.
But he goes on. “It was good enough inspiration because you’re the best goddamn medic I’ve ever seen.”
Your heart skips a beat and you face him fully, awe in your eyes. Did you just hear that correctly? Did Sergeant Jeon actually compliment you? Astonished, you gaze at him, and he’s perfectly refusing to meet your eyes, so you collect yourself quickly, biting back any smug remarks you might have.
You have no idea what to say; your gaze falling into your hands, because that fucker wouldn’t accept a thank you for the life of him. So you remain silent, your lips threatening to curve.
But something shifts in the air. His demeanor changes, and he stiffens, as if straining to hear. And you hear it too; the roar of incoming engines in the night. Suddenly a crackling emerges from Jeon’s headset, and he slaps it into place immediately.
“You hear it too, Sergeant?”
“They’re not ours… Jung, make sure everyone’s got a goddamn gun in their hands.”
Your heart hammers in your chest and you tuck your head into his shoulder, listening for more of Hoseok’s words.
“Roger. Do we wait for instruction to fire?”
Jeon shakes his head to himself, and without hesitation, says, “Fire at will.”
A few other voices crackle over the comms, and it disappoints you to no end that you can count the number of living soldiers on two hands.
The sergeant mumbles angrily to himself, leaning away only to return with two M16s in his hands. He faces you, his lips pulled tight, and he watches the unsteady rise and fall of your chest under his blouse. You know what he’s thinking.
“I’m good enough to run. Don’t even think for a second I would let you fight alone.” His normally striking, sharp eyes soften a fraction.
“Wouldn’t imagine it.”
Hastily, you accept the weapon he offers, the smudges of smog and dust from the explosion rubbing onto your hands. The sound of engines cuts a distance away, and you can only image the vehicle inhibitors are treading carefully to dodge the IEDs.
“Command this is Sergeant Jeon of Alpha Twenty-Two, requesting immediate assistance at location…” He states as he secures his helmet.
You tune him out as he gives the coordinates into the radio stolen from one of the vehicles, strapped to his vest, and you strain to hear any incoming assailants. Your weapon is light in your palms, after being so adjusted to bearing its weight in training. You check the mechanisms and are pleased to conclude its high chance of firing.
“Roger that. Over and out.”
He attaches the radio back onto his vest and gestures for you to put your kevlar on, having been discarded at your side during your treatment. You slip it on quickly, hissing as it contacts the inflamed skin of your abdomen. Then, over top, you thrown on his blouse. The thing is wide on your frame but it conceals you very well. Lastly, you sling the belt of the weapon over your shoulder, flipping the safety to fire.
“Good news is we have big guns on the way.” He states, not all that enthused. He peers at you in your new state of dress. “Bad news is they’ll be half an hour.”
You almost groan. It would only take one RPG to destroy one of these buildings, and something tells you that you won’t make it for that long. Your helmet is strapped tightly against your head as you ponder options. Jeon seems to be doing the same.
“Jung,” He calls into the comms, and you yearn to hear the voice of your friend again. The crackling ensues again.
“Sergeant?”
“As soon as you hear fire, lead your men behind the buildings.”
You gape at the notion. It’s genius. As soon as rescue arrives, there will no doubt be a firefight, but that will draw the attention from your team. No doubt will a slot of distraction provide for the safe escape from the buildings.
You listen on anxiously, creating the scenario in your head, and affirmation returns on the other end of the line.
It feels like hours pass, and the hostiles have only grown closer as you and the sergeant patiently wait for the cue, and soon enough, and explosive ring of foreign explicatives are being shouted from across the sands as explosives ring into the night.
“GO!” Jeon shouts, fisting the material at your elbow, and then you’re being launched into the battle again.
Up the hill you can see the orange and white of explosive barrels and the resounding scream of gun fire.
The sergeant shields you protectively as he whips around the building, his weapon pointed dangerously towards the fight. Soon enough, though, you narrowly dodge a bullet, and it lodges into the cement to your right. Shocked into a stupor, you grow rigid, and then Jeon is hauling you further around the hut of concrete. When you make it around unscathed, he brings you down to the sand with him, and you stare down the sights of your weapon, searching for any hostiles.
You see movement to your left, and relief fills you when you see Hoseok and the other men round the edge of their building.
You lock eyes with the specialist, and you can almost see his lips stretch into a pearly grin.
“Jeon, we’re closing in!” The radio crackles to life, and you wonder if they’ve taken out all of the enemies. But the firefight persists.
“We have two Humvees ready to round the shelters.” That means they still have men fighting at the top of the hill, distracting the enemies so the evac could take place.
You stare at the sergeant as he contemplates the words. “Roger,” He says, glancing at you. Then his finger is dipping to his ear to stir up the comms.
“Jung, take your boys on the first Humvee. They’re rounding the buildings.”
You see Hoseok handle his comm quickly in return. “Got it.” He gestures to the number of men at his side just in time for a vehicle to spin into view, drifting along the sands and spurring a flurry of movement.
It halts just before the team and they dive in with record time. Hoseok nods your way just before entering, “be safe.”
He breaks your gaze before you can nod in return, diving in with his grenade launcher encased in his hands. The vehicle zooms off with a riveting engine growl, and you feel your heart stammer in your chest as it goes. “They’re going to make it…” You try to reassure yourself, watching it drive away at a breakneck speed just as another emerges.
“L/N, be ready,” Jeon harshly spits out, his non-firing hand hot on your shoulder. And you hold your breath as the Humvee steers in from a farther distance away, its eyes on the two of you. But you shouldn’t have believed you’d be so lucky.
Almost instantaneously does it erupt into flames after a deafening explosion strikes its core. Another IED.
“FUCK!” You hear before you’re suddenly being urged into sand, a body lain protectively over you as the Earth shakes and the vehicle flips.
The Sergeant is growling under his breath as he holds you against the wall, your cheeks pressed against his chest and your helmet buried into the sand. Amidst the sizzling and aftermath of the explosion, you hear more engines erupt to life, and then you’re being dragged to your feet.
“They know we’re here now,” The sergeant calls out, his hand firmly pulling yours along. You have no words for him, nothing but actions purely prompted by adrenaline as you sprint, for some reason, towards the overturned Humvee.
You can see the roasting body in the driver’s seat, and you jerk your attention to where Jeon is leading you. “Where are we going?!” You call out, finger deftly planted on your beside your trigger.
“No where they’ll expect,” He says quickly before diving into the pit where the IED once laid. Instinctually, you fight his grasp, but he tugs you down into the narrow pit behind him. Suppressing a scream, you fall vertically quite a few meters into darkness before your boots slam against the sand and you slam against him, the wind escaping your lungs. You’ve surely sprained an ankle, but that is the least of your concerns.
The engines are closer, and you can hear the enemy trucks circling the disembodied Humvee. You squirm in mild panic, uncomfortably enclosed in the deep, dark pit, still simmering with explosive heat. But the sergeant presses his hands to your shoulders, urging you to meet his gaze though you cannot see it. You can feel his breath on your lips, and suddenly the close proximity makes itself known.
You’re chest-to-chest, your spine dancing along one wall of sand just as his touches the other. The pit almost snugly fits the both of you. You attempt to calm your breathing, and you feel his hand reaching between the both of you. He clutches the radio on his vest and hurriedly brings it to his lips. His voice can be felt on your cheeks.
“Return to base. Await further instruction.” Your stomach flips, and you hear the beginnings of a protest on the other line before Jeon turns the radio off.
The engines suddenly cut from above you, and you can’t help but to squeeze your eyes shut in apprehension, your hands locked around your gun in a death grip. Your panting so hard that Jeon is moving with you, and he is quick to dispose of the radio back onto his vest, moving to clutch at your cheeks.
You can barely make out his defined features, and he closes in even closer. “Don’t make a sound.” He whispers, lifting himself slightly to tower over you. It takes you a moment to realize he’s shielding the both of you by using the black of his vest to shadow you.
Minutes pass and you can hear the conversations persist above you. The men cackle, shout, and fire their weapons, quite possibly at the destroyed vehicle. Your heart hammers without relent.
You lose feeling in your legs, having been awkwardly tilted back, and you carefully move to regain some circulation. Jeon senses you shifting, and surprisingly, he complies with you. Sensing your discomfort, he lets his weapon hang by its sling around his neck. You don’t really have the mind to question him when he tucks his hands beneath your knees, bending slightly for leverage, and hooks them with his shoulders.
This position brings relief to your blood flow and you breath out, allowing your M16 to rest on your abdomen as you bring your arms around his neck.
He stiffens at the contact, but relaxes almost immediately, pressing you deeper into the wall of warmed sand to disperse your weight comfortably. Your groins are interlocked and you know you would be a mess right now if not for the hostiles parading around above you.
Shortly after, though, you hear the roar of engines. Sand from above cascades down in thin layers as the vehicles pass by, the number of them shaking the Earth, and you’re left listening to the crackle of fire and dead of night.
You release a heavy sigh, finally allowing yourself to relax against the man. Jeon doesn’t make an effort to move, his head dipping against your neck. He’s probably not slept at all, you realize, and you tap his back tentatively.
“Sergeant, you can put me down.” You whisper, carefully bringing a palm up to the cheek against your shoulder. You push his face slightly, guilty that he’s been carrying your weight. He moves back just enough for you to feel his nose against yours. “Don’t talk,” he warns, innocent threats lacing his words. You swallow thickly at this, noting that yes, there still is a chance that enemies are searching for you.
But the more time that passes, the more aware of the position you’re in. Now that you’re not in direct danger, your mind drifts elsewhere, to places far too distracting and unnecessary than where it needs to be.
The temperature spikes quicker than you can register, and you begin to pant, becoming painfully aware that with so much as a simple motion, he could unite the both of you here in this IED pit, where the remains of your comrades not so distantly lay.
Why am I so fucking weak?
“Sergea—” You try again, ready to protest, when his mouth hotly seals your words. Your eyes spring open until they’re forced closed with the sheer pleasure of his lips. Wetly, they pry and prod until he’s given complete access, and you’re not sure when it happened, but his tongue slithers into your mouth, like a sinning snake.
You groan and his fingers clutch the curves of your thighs, his throat thrumming with a hum of approval when you begin moving against him. Why is this happening? Why can’t you stop?
Why don’t I want to stop?
Your thoughts become muddled when he presses a seeking thrust against your clothed core, and you peel your face away to bite back a groan. It’s just like that day during the soccer game, except he’s not holding back now. It seems as though he’s not ready to part, for his surges forward to reclaim your lips once more, but the clanking of your helmets has him cursing and ripping his off. You hear it fall before he’s unclasping yours at your chin, and the weight off your head has never been so relieving.
He thrusts again, his length harder than before, and this time you cannot suppress a moan. “Serg—”
“Use my fucking name, Y/N.” He whispers hotly, readjusting you in his grip. You can already imagine how strained his length must be against his cargos, and the thought has you groaning.
“Jungkook,” Airy and lightly, you call out, and he seems to enjoy it, offering a harsher thrust against you, so harsh that you can feel the bead of your clit rotate even through all of your layers.
“Shit,” He curses, “I imagined you calling my name but it sounds so much fuckin’ better in person.” His gruff voice is laced with something you could only define as brutish lust, and it leaves tingles in your ears and stomach.
“Oh fuck, Jungkook—” It’s as though you’ve tasted a forbidden fruit so delicious that you cannot stop eating it, for now all inhibitions are gone and you smoothly gyrate yourself against him, your underwear soaked and twisted by his ministrations.
Soon enough, he’s breathing dirty words of encouragement into your ear, abandoning your swollen and tired lips to suckle at the juncture of your neck.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I can’t die without tasting your sweet pussy.”
You shiver, throwing your head back to allot him more canvas to paint with his tongue and teeth. He marks you up so good.
You hook your ankles behind his back, and he gratefully allows his hands to roam free without having to hold you up. The thrusts grow stronger, and his hips swivel with each one, his dick trying to feel as much of your seeping warmth as possible. And you’re certain that you are absolutely dripping by now.
The vest over your chest is hardly a barrier for him as his hands maneuver expertly beneath it, having all but ripped open the blouse that you don. You cry out shamelessly when he squeezes a breast, seeking out the raised bud before pinching it without relent.
“Shit, Jungkook—I’m close!” You praise when that distant feeling in the pit of your stomach grows stronger and stronger. He almost moves faster at this, one hand going to your hip while the other settles in your dirtied locks, squeezing at your scalp to bring you in for another damnable kiss.
He pounds against you so hard that you can almost feel the sand behind you threaten to give way, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
Jeon’s searing tongue presses yours into submission without much attempt, and you keen into him, giving him your all as your head becomes clouded. The friends you’ve lost, the memories that haunt you, the anxieties of war—they’re all gone now. Encased in one another’s arms, you and the sergeant fend off the horrors you’ve faced by seeking out each other.
It’s enough of a distraction for now, so you can’t regret it.
“Are you gonna come for me?” He pulls away just enough to whisper, the hand in your hair traversing to where you’re joined beneath the hips. Miraculously, he finds your clit through your cargos, and you yelp out, jerking around as he plays with the tiny bud.
He’s so entranced with it, and you shudder through your orgasm, your toes curling and twitching it your boots as you arch towards him, sand fluttering down from above and onto your cheeks.
He’s still going hard, and you squirm with oversensitivity. “Jung-Jungkook—” You utter with no choice but to move along with him and accept him.
He’s still hard as a rock, but he’s close, and you don’t think that you can take anymore. Your hand slithers to where you’re joined, and he falters just enough for you to grasp him through his pants. He doesn’t argue against this, instead, he releases a beautiful deep, deep groan. It encourages you to be bolder, and you make quick work of unbuttoning his pants just enough to reach in and unsheathe him.
You can’t see his cock, and while all of your touches had been frantic fumbling, you finally feel it. It’s hefty in your palm, and girthy. You can’t even see it and you’re watering at the mouth.
The springy hairs at its base invite your tender strokes, and the veins bulging from its shaft urge you to move faster.
“Your cock is so big,” you say absentmindedly, flushing as he chuckles.
“Didn’t expect that from the Iron Bitch,” Then his hand encompasses yours and encourages it along. You pump him vigorously, meeting the pace he had been slamming against you with. His breathing becomes scattered as his hips fuck into your hand, his lips finding purchase back against your neck.
Finally, with a twitch-like fluidity, Jungkook’s body rolls and his seed jets out into your hands. It’s warm and sticky, and you can’t find it in yourself to wipe it off just yet, somehow sickly enraptured with the way it clings to your fingers. His teeth pinch the skin of your neck enough for you to wince, and you whimper his name, spent for the evening.
Minutes pass, or perhaps hours do, when he finally slips away from your neck. You feel him fix himself, the sound of buttoning meeting your ears, and you allow your legs to drop from his hips, an exhale leaving you. You had no idea how long you two were met like that, but now that the fog is clearing from your mind, you’re reminded of why this was a bad idea.
You’re silent, and you fume to yourself. You’re not angry at him. You let it happen. You should’ve stopped it.
He is my superior. He probably doesn’t even like me. I was just a quick fuck to keep his mind off of everything. I let it happen. This was a mistak—
“L/N,”
Your thoughts dissolve away. You blink helplessly into the darkness, gazing into his general direction. Smoothly, he encompasses your cheek, his callouses grazing against you. His voice is low, maybe stern, but with a hint of gentleness nonetheless. You’re not sure how he does it.
“Before you start giving me that this-was-a-mistake bullshit like I know you will, let’s make it back to base. Then we can talk it out.”
There’s nothing more you can say or do than to nod. Because you’re only going to figure this thing out—whatever this thing with Jeon is—if you make it out alive.
Chapter 8
Summary:
Uploaded on my phone- sorry if there are any formatting errors 😔
Notes:
Warning: this chapter includes PTSD and talks of minor character death
Chapter Text
The sun rises in a sort of ominous way, the desert winds blowing waves of sand into the burning orange orb. The stars are still out, though dimmer, twinkling gently in a way you never saw back home. You wish you could have the mind to take the moment to admire the sky of dawn, but your head and heart weigh heavy with matters far more impending.
You blink tiredly, staring out the little window of the hut, your finger smoothing over the trigger of your weapon. It rests in your lap with a strange essence of comfort coming from its weight—sort of like how a cat would curl into you to rest. The thought makes you grimace—when had you become such a boot that the mere presence of an M16 reminds you of home?
Your back creaks as you stretch, having been stationed against the wall for the last three or so hours. You sneak a glance at Jeon. He’s sat the opposite wall of you, his head bowed and his hands ready on his machine gun.
He had planned to stay up and take the first shift, to let you rest, because he “doesn’t need sleep”. But you could spot the bags under his eyes in the moonlight, and you stood firm against him, your arms crossed and your eyes narrowed demandingly. You were still shaken from the incident with Jimin, unable to fathom the idea of resting easy, so you objected his plan. And whatever you did made him give in, and he ordered that you wake him up at first sun. He’s dozing lightly, his lips pulled taut as his eyes waver beneath their lids. You wonder if he’s dreaming, and if so, of what.
Nothing in you doubts that the ever brawn Sergeant Jeon himself has nightmares, and with the way his fingers twitch sporadically against the trigger of his gun, you fear that you are correct. He’s probably not had a pleasant, deep sleep in years.
The sound of a throaty noise emitting from his throat has you cautiously scooting over. You observe for a few more moments, that, even in his sleep, with his face contorted slightly, he still looks more peaceful than in his wake.
He jostles gently, his knuckles clenching against the barrel, and you move over to plant a hand on his shoulder, fearful that whatever dream he is fighting for his life in now might actually cause him to shoot.
Immediately, his eyes shoot open, a damnable glare seeping into the blackness of them as he stares at you—and you can see right away that what he’s seeing is not you.
“Sergeant—!” You hurriedly whisper as he lunges for you, hands finding immediate home wrapped around your neck. Your breath leaves you instantly, and you choke out a cry of shock, eyes seeking his, trying to wake him from his nightmare.
Your spine cracks against the concrete and he forces his weight atop you, a knee digging against your ribcage as you swear you can hear something in your neck pop. His lips are pulled into a ferocious grimace, as though he’s staring down at his most hated enemy.
Desperately, you pound your fists against his sides, your fingers threatening to reach for the M16 that has fallen to the side, but you know that if you were to fire a warning shot, there is a solid chance that the hostiles would hear it. So you seek your last resort—hoping that the close relations in your past would be remembered by your touch. You wrap your arms around him, your eyes growing heavy, and you use the last of your strength to draw him slightly closer, your lips parting to croak out a plea.
“Jung…kook.”
As though you are pulled back into the world of consciousness just as you leave it, the fog of black dissipates as soon as you take a heaving breath, the grasp on your throat leaving you with an ache in your windpipe as your lungs yearn for deeper breaths. You can finally inhale, the knee digging deep into your chest pulling away.
You pant hard, eyes squeezing shut as you reach for your neck subconsciously, smoothing your fingers over it as though that would take away the bruises. A wheeze leaves you, and you know that if he were gripping any harder, your windpipe would’ve cracked.
“Shit,” His voice is hoarse and he grabs at your shoulders, ceasing your squirms. “Hold still. Fuck.” You blink at him, eyes going from glossy to clear as his face takes on the color of the sunrise above you. He peels your hands from your skin, his eyes growing dark as his lips take on a frown once he sees the abused area.
With a sort of gentleness he rarely displays, his thumbs move over the skin, and you fight the winces, because there’s guilt in his hollow orbs, and it would only make him more upset with himself if he saw how hurt you are.
“Y/N, I’m…” He starts, meeting your gaze, his fingers soft and calloused all at once. You shake your head at him—you don’t want to hear him apologize; it’s not his fault.
“No, no. It’s okay.” You manage between breaths, carefully sitting yourself up and forcing his hands to fall. He releases a heavy sigh, head bowing. He doesn’t believe you, you realize, and to settle him, you tuck your head against his chest, his chin grazing the top of your hair, your arms going around him.
“It’s… okay.”
It takes a few more moments to feel him encompass the sides and back of your vest, his large hands curled into frustrated fists at the nape of your neck.
An hour later finds you sat shoulder-to-shoulder, the morning sun burning your cheeks, but you realize you appreciate the warmth, because it doesn’t make you feel so cold when you think about the comrades you’ve lost, and how Jimin’s body is probably far colder in the hut beside yours, if the assailants hadn’t went ahead and mutilated it already.
Jeon had already contacted the base, giving them your position and state of being, and instructed that they scan the surrounding coordinates before trying to come for rescue, in the event that the enemy territory you’re in is still littered with unexploded IEDs or an ambush.
It’s too risky to send a helicopter out, as it would be an easy target for anyone bearing a rocket launcher, and a convoy crossing the dessert would be seen from kilometers away by anyone with easy-to-come by optics. So they’re coming after the fall of dusk over the land, in two heavily armored vehicles—and a tank.
Something in your heart tells you a dear comrade of yours will be manning the thing, and you can only hope that he’s as good as he claims to be—you can’t imagine the thought of losing another friend.
It’s been several minutes of silence since the radio cut, and you’ve taken the time to delve into deep, wallowing thoughts, before the sergeant breaks the air with a thumb flipping the safety of his weapon to and fro.
“I have dreams like that all the time. Nightmares.” He starts, with a lacing of venom. “Almost every fuckin’ night.”
The click of the safety switch resounds in the small stone hut like a metronome, disturbing the silence almost rhythmically. You bite your tongue anxiously, waiting for him to continue. Even this much information is more personal than anything he’s ever shared, and your ears and mind yearn for more.
“They started when I was a private. Just after my first deployment. And they’re always the same.” You turn to glance at him, and he’s burning a hole into the wall with his gaze. “I had a friend. He and I enlisted at the same time after high school. He wanted to be a dancer but he felt too fuckin’ guilty that I was leaving alone. We went through training together and lucked out on the same deployment overseas.
“It was about eight months into deployment when we were doing a routine training out in the desert and we were suddenly ambushed. Fucking M240s and shit. My platoon sergeant led us to shelter at a nearby town, but we were tailed, and he made us take shelter while he fired at them. I saw his head get blown to shit when he was reloading.
“And Yugyeom took the risk I was too afraid to take. He took Sergeant’s gun and fired back. He was crying and screaming. And then he forgot his training, and he lost cover. He was shot four times in the chest.”
There’s an unmistakable quiver in his voice, and you almost release a sob, your eyes watering to the extent that their about ready to spill over.
“I dragged him behind cover, and carried him into one of the buildings. I was so pissed. I got onto one of the turrets and killed every single one of them. They were all dead but I kept shooting until the clip was exhausted and the barrel was red. And even then I kept pulling the trigger.” He sighs, the clicking of the safety falling silent.
“The town’s leader came to stop me. He hugged me and told me it was over. And then he led me back to where Yugyeom was, and he had tried to save him, but it was no use. Those fuckers shot him in a way he’d just fucking bleed out. He could only look at me. He was breathing but his eyes were dead. He was wheezing, in so much pain. And then his eyes moved over to my gun. I knew what he wanted me to do.”
Your tears fall as your eyes shoot back in front of you, visualizing his memory as though it is your own. You think wretchedly of how quickly Jimin died, and how Jungkook must’ve felt seeing his best friend suffering a slow death.
“He should’ve just been a dancer.” He hoarsely chuckles, his head knocking back against the wall. “He should’ve just fuckin’ let me leave him”
You swallow thickly, your fingers tightening around the grip of the M16 sitting in your lap, its sling digging around into the side of your neck.
“The town leader…?” You whisper out. You see him nod in your peripherals.
“He’s the one who runs the town from Sector B we go on supply runs to. It’s been over four years since I’ve known him. “
You nod hollowly, eyes falling to glance over the dust and blood coating your pants. The sergeant has been going out of his way to thank the town leader for all these years by supplying his people with much needed supplies. You wondered why they seemed so close, and now the frequent supply trips make sense.
“How many deployments have you been on?”
“Two.” He answers instantly. You can’t fight the shock that widens your eyes as you turn to stare at him.
“You’ve been on two deployments in almost five years? You’ve only been home once?”
“Not even,” He randomly assesses the functions of his gun. “After my first deployment I went back to my training station and became a range instructor for six months. I didn’t have a home to go back to, not when Yugyeom wasn’t there. Then I volunteered for another deployment and haven’t left here since.”
It makes sense why he’s made such rank in such a short period of time. It’s such a rarity to volunteer for an infantry deployment, and it’s regarded with such honor. You imagine if he were to wear his dress uniform, there would be a full display of stacked colors pinned to his chest
But you know Jeon well enough to know he doesn’t give a shit about the awards he’s earned out in the field. That’s not why he fights his battles.
“What do your parents think?” You aren’t sure if you’re biting off more than you can chew, but you’re desperate to know more about the mysterious man. To see if he’d let you in even deeper.
He’s quiet for a minute, and you think he’s decided not to answer you. “They barely accepted that I enlisted. They wanted me to go to college, do the whole successful career shit. I told them that it’s my life, and they didn’t get to decide for me. Then after a few months, they let me go. I got a few letters from them, but they stopped a while after I never replied to them. I haven’t seen them since leaving.”
He hasn’t seen family in five years, you think. A part of you believes it’s because he’s afraid they won’t accept him for all he’s done. Or that he doesn’t want to confront the hometown he and his best friend grew up in when he’s the only one who can return.
Your heart goes out to him. You have faced times of suffering in your life, but your ailing pales in comparison to what he’s been through.
“Then why,” you breath out, “why did you join? Why not go to school and live a normal life.” He turns to look at you as though you had just asked the stupidest question of all time, but you meet his gaze with an ever more serious one. He knows why you joined; it’s only fair he let you in on why he did.
He sighs. “I wanted to kill people.” Of course, this is the answer you expected deep down, but it still makes you furrow your brows in disbelief. He’s blunt, but he’s not that blunt. You glare at him. His lips curl gently, then he goes back to facing the opposing wall, his eyes closing.
“I also wanted to protect people. People like Yugyeom. He was bullied throughout high school for being tall and skinny, and I kicked so many asses that it’s a miracle I wasn’t kicked out. Then he got handsome and popular and didn’t need my protection anymore.”
He stops, eyes fluttering open, and you can almost see the ruthless, youthful boy he once was peeking out of them. “But I still wanted to protect people. And in the long run, any man who partakes in war is helping to bring it to an end.” He glances sideward at you. “Or woman.”
You scoff lightly at this, rolling your tired eyes the other way, as a comfortable silence permeates between you. The sun says it’s about 0730, and your watch confirms that it is just after.
“Try to sleep. We have a long day of nothing ahead of us and I don’t want to hear you complaining about being tired.” Jeon’s voice returns to its original state, and you have to admit that you missed this sarcastic tone. You smile softly, allowing yourself to obey his orders, your head falling back against the concrete. You hear him shuffling around beside you, and you peek over to see him putting his helmet back on. You watch him curiously.
It only occurs to you then that you’re still wearing his blouse over your vest, something that would traditionally be worn under it, but its bagginess on your frame provides you with a sense of comfort. However, you feel guilty that he’s been out of camouflage this entire time, so your fingers reach up to begin unzipping it. He notices you right away, giving you a pointed look.
“Keep it on. Yours is fucked up from the shrapnel. I’d rather one of us at least try to stay inconspicuous.” But he’d not met your gaze when he said those words, and something tells you the coloring of his cheeks is not a part of your imagination. You smile coyly to yourself, and zip the baggy material back up, grateful that the airiness of it allows some breeze to your skin underneath.
You’re about ready to fall into the grasp of a welcoming snooze when a horrible sound draws you from your mild slumber. Your eyes shoot open, and your hands fly to your M16 faster than you would’ve liked to admit. Horrified, your eyes dart to Jeon’s, where he is already bringing his weapon to a low-carry hold.
He stares at you, no words needed, and you’re already nodding, crawling over to the underside of the window, your weapon tight against your chest. Your Kevlar is already fastened onto your head, the chin strap uncomfortably snug against your jaw. The Sergeant moves to the other side of the room, too, hidden from the sight of the window, but in a more compromisable spot if anyone were to enter through the ancient, wooden door.
He knows just as well as you do that he’s going to be the first to make contact.
The sound of Humvees drift closer and closer, and you already know that they’re not passing by; whatever they want, it’s at the huts. You think sorrowfully back to Jimin and his corpse. The things you would do to those men if they so much as touched it.
You angrily grip your barrel, ensuring your weapon is ready to fire, and your ears seek the words that can be heard just as the trucks’ engines are cut. The men are speaking colorfully, and you wish you could understand them—to know their intent—but you keep your eyes trained on Jungkook for any orders as he also listens in. He seems to have a much better time understanding them as their voices grow closer, his eyes narrowed and focused.
Then he looks at you. He knows something, and you desperately wish that he could convey his words with his eyes. But there’s only one thing you can see in them; resolution.
The men are close enough for you to hear their footsteps padding around outside, and they fearlessly slam through the door of the building beside yours.
Jungkook’s eyes are set hard, and you watch with a bated breath as one of his hands dips to his belt. Finally, the blackness of his orbs, glowing so magnificently against the sun, meet yours with a passing softness you could only describe as something that would seamlessly be paired with a farewell, and his lips move so quickly you almost miss what he’s whispered.
“Stay here.”
He’s up before you can protest, charging through the door without so much as another sound. You can only yelp out his name frantically when he’s beginning to fire, and you jump up to your feet, ready to chase after him when a deafening blow throws you back into the wall.
A grenade, it seems, is what Jeon was holding in his hand when he bolted, and you fearfully rise to the window again, a cloud of smoke and sand dusting the air.
“JUNGKOOK!” You scream out, searching for his form amidst it all. You can still hear the exchange of rapid gun fire, and the curses of enemies a distance away, but no amount of fear keeps you from obeying the orders of the sergeant to stay still and let him fight alone.
You charge out after him, ducking beneath the spray of zipping bullets. They whir past your head as you dive into the clouds of smoke, spotting a bulky shadow nearby. It’s one of the vehicles, you gather, and latched to the back of it is a prone sergeant Jeon, his weapon firing calculatedly compared to the sporadic firing of the hostiles. He must spot you as soon as you approach, his barrel shifting towards you before he realizes who it is, and then you launch yourself to the other side of him.
“I fucking told you to stay put!” He yells over the fire, not daring to take an eye off of the enemy even when the smoke cloud dissipates. You heave out a pant, landing roughly on your abused stomach, and you aim off the other side of the truck, watching the frantic steps of the assailants scattering like ants for cover.
“And I fucking told you I won’t let you fight alone!”
His angry growl is barely heard over the spray of bullets against the armored vehicle, but he drops it at that. You can see where the grenade has blown a hole into the front of the building where they were gathered, and a few bodies were perfectly struck by it. But there were still a hand-full taking aim at you.
“What did they want?!” You call out, firing off a few shots that hit the concrete hut where one man is peeking from behind. You grit your teeth, staring down your iron sight, and launch a few more shots, timing it good enough to nail the barrel of his rifle and his hand. He stumbles off in shock, exposing himself to your view, and Jungkook finishes him for you.
“They were going to put Park’s head on a stake and leave it in one of the towns for us!”
Those fucking bastards.
You release a battle cry as you eye someone in the prone atop a hill of sand, his scope glistening in the sun, and you pop his head without so much as another thought. The Iron Bitch has awoken, and she’s pissed. A mist of blood spews from the body, and your target moves to where Jeon is viciously shooting at one of the other vehicles.
“If they get on that turret, they’re lighting this place up!” He calls, and you nod, switching your weapon from four-round bursts, noting that your clip needs to be changed soon.
“I’m out!” Jungkook calls with a curse, hand fumbling for the pistol attached to his hip. You continue firing rapidly for him, all the while shifting your hip towards him.
“Here, take mine!”
It isn’t long before you feel him swipe a magazine from your side, and you realize you’ve only got one more remaining. The clicking from your right signals that he’s loaded his weapon, but a shadow casts over you suddenly, and your gaze shoots up.
“Jungkook!”
It’s too late, though, as the enemy cloaked like the dessert sand has already knocked the back of the Sergeant’s head with the butt of his rifle. He slumps over instantly, and you twist onto your back, aiming at the tall man. But as you pull the trigger, the chamber is not riddled with the fiery explosion of a 5.56 round. Your eyes widen as the dull click rings out tauntingly into the air, the empty magazine rattling with every attempt.
A gasp leaves you when the man meets your eyes, his icy blue ones piercing into yours almost majestically, if not for the excited bloodlust swimming in them. The eyes are the only identifiable feature of him, and you feel yourself being sucked into them, but you shake it off, dismissing your fear, and you launch yourself over top of Jungkook protectively.
“Don’t kill him!”
You reach for Jeon’s pistol still attached to his hip, and then the barrel of a rifle is pressed to your temple, the man’s voice halting you.
“If you shoot me, he will die.”
Your hand falls to the sand, but you still hold yourself over Jungkook, his body stirring beneath you. His accent is slight and his words are dark. You are intimidated under his gaze, the fire in your blood running cold.
The onslaught of bullets has ceased since the appearance of the man in sandy robes, and the remaining enemies come racing around the Humvee to surround you, you flattening yourself over top the sergeant, your hand cupping his cheek, turning his face from the Earth.
There are at least four rifles on you, and you know that they should have killed you by now. Something is stopping them, and that something must be at the demands of the man with the icy eyes. He waves their rifles down, dropping his own to his side, saying something in his native tongue that falls deaf on your ears. Then he looks back to you, and you can see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when his lips curve beneath the cloth covering his mouth.
“Behave, little one. Or I will make it hurt very much.”
His words bring you to shiver, and you can think no more when a black sack is suddenly placed over your head, and the end of a rifle comes cracking against the back of your Kevlar, the impact hard enough to make you see stars before all you see is blackness
Chapter 9
Summary:
(Last time...)
“Behave, little one. Or I will make it hurt very much.”
His words bring you to shiver, and you can think no more when a black sack is suddenly placed over your head, and the end of a rifle comes cracking against the back of your Kevlar, the impact hard enough to make you see stars before all you see is blackness.
Notes:
Warning: this chapter includes the threat of RAPE TORTURE but it doesn’t really happen BUT IT IS STILL TRIGGERING SO PLEASE PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!
also this was very rushed, and I do so apologize for its brief length… but we’re almost done!!
Chapter Text
The first thing you gather upon waking up is the dry smell of metal and sand. It’s a very distinct combination, one that you experience often in the deserts of war. Taehyung had shown you the insides of his tank once, and the scent was strong then too. Like how you imagine well-oiled cogs would smell in an industrial warehouse.
Except you know that this consuming blackness that surrounds you is not the inside of Bessy, Taehyung’s proud K2-Black Panther tank.
The second is that the dust clinging to the black sack cloaking your face has stuck to your lips, and you puff some air to blow the material away. Lucky for you, it seems they removed your helmet, otherwise you imagine you would be sweating bullets right now. Your eyes blink rapidly, spying few slivers of light crawling through the torn bits of the sack. Your eyelashes brush uncomfortably against the wool-like cloth, and you pull at the ropes digging into your wrists behind you.
In your basic training days, you were programmed not to panic in moments such as these, but you can’t stop the racing of your heart when you realize that your feet have been strapped still too. Completely immobilized, you keen your head to the side, searching for distant sounds.
It’s almost dead silent, and it seems as though you’re alone in the room—a room that feels wide and empty, due to the swift draft breezing past your exposed skin. You wriggle around enough to gather that you’ve been stripped of your vest, but luckily it seems like Jungkook’s uniform blouse is still intact on your torso. You relax slightly, only growing rigid when hearing the clanking of metal not far off from your right. Your body slumps over, like it had been before you woke, and you feign unconsciousness.
But as sweat begins to trickle down the side of your brow, and the clanking metal only grows in succession, you have to hold your breath.
“L/N…”
Your head shoots up, “Sergeant—” you croak out, words nothing short of hoarse, and you know if these rebels don’t kill you, dehydration will. You cough out, turning your chin to your shoulder to keep the noise down.
“Are you alright?” He asks lowly, the sound of his voice relaxing you. Once your lungs are cleared of sand, your turn your head in his general direction, because you can’t quite pinpoint where he’s at, but you’re relieved he’s at least in the same room.
“I’m fine. Strapped to a chair.” You try the bind at your hands again, as if to emphasize your state of being.
“I can see. They took the bag off my head. I’m chained to a wall.”
You narrow your eyes, though you can’t see him. “How long have you been awake?” You try, keeping your ear pointed for any incoming noises. The metal of his chains ring out, and you can hear him shifting a bit closer, the slight shuffling of his body across the floor. It seems as if the chains keeping him tethered are long enough to allow for some mobility, and you’re glad he’s not as restrained as you are.
Though is does make you wonder why they’ve got you completely immobilized, when he’s clearly the more dangerous one.
“Why haven’t they killed us?” You find yourself questioning, swiping your dry lips with an even drier tongue. Fatigue is clawing at you, and the back of your skull aches.
Jeon is silent for a few seconds and it seems as though he’s going to dismiss your inquiry, when he sighs a very exasperated and tired sound.
“I don’t know. But I think it has something to do with that village we supply. The one in sector two.”
That’s the one you were ambushed at. The same one Jungkook was ambushed at years ago.
“Why? What do they want with it?” It occurs to you that there’s something missing, and you feel that the only way you’ll find answers is from the perpetrators themselves.
“Fuck if I know…” Jungkook hisses out, and you can tell he’s as exhausted as he sounds. Some notion stirs from your left, and you grow rigid when the sound of footsteps begins to draw near. “I’ll just ask those fuckers myself.” He states bravely, and you turn your head as if to plea with him to behave so he doesn’t get himself killed, but you know that his pride is too large to swallow.
He wouldn’t give them what they want even if it costs him his life.
Your head dips back into a slacking position after Jungkook quietly hisses out that you feign unconsciousness yet again. Your hair falls uncomfortably against your eyelashes and you can’t help but to hold your breath when the sound of unlocking mechanism fills the air.
You count three pairs of heavy boots—maybe four—strut into the dry room and bring with them a blanket of tension. It’s getting harder to control your heartbeat—the thrumming of fear and absolute anger meshing together to perform a cacophony against your ribcage.
The men brush past you, and despite your eyelids fluttering closed, you can feel their shadows cast over your being.
The heady boots of one of the men stop before you. You hold your breath. Somehow you know; you know it’s the mysterious man with the icy blue eyes. It’s they way his presence is so calm and cold all at once. It’s how sharing the same air as him feels as though he is sucking the life out of you.
He says something in his mother tongue so smooth and peculiar before he switches to English, curiously cynical.
“I’m sorry if I woke you, Sergeant.”
“You don’t get to fucking call me that.” Jungkook spits out, his words quiet but laced with unspent ferocity. A droplet of sweat rolls over your chin.
The blue-eyed man chuckles something worth shivering over, his looming shadow slowly crawling away. “I saw that in you; I knew you would put up a fight.”
Not waiting a breath, the sergeant fires back. “If you knew that, why didn’t you just put a goddamn bullet through my skull?”
Delighted, the man claps his hands together. You can almost hear his crippling grin. “I’m afraid that would do no justice to my plans for you, brave soldier.”
This time Jungkook has no immediate response, and you only hope he plays his cards right instead of letting his crude vocabulary get the better of him. He stays silent, and you know this is his way of prying for answers—with his condemning, articulating eyes.
The man gives in to it, it seems—as you have so many times before. “I know you made friends with that old patriot. I need your camaraderie.”
The tension in the room shifts, and you can tell Jungkook has been rifled by this statement. “What’s he to you?” He must be talking about the town leader from sector two, just as Jungkook predicted.
The man chuckles again, softer this time, and he rounds the room in a slow manner, his drape-like clothing brushing past your shoulder and forcing a draw of breath from your lips. You remain still, nonetheless, dismissing the ache of your bound wrists.
“He is much more to me than to you, brave soldier—” Two hands place themselves firmly onto your shoulders and you startle.
“…he is my brother.”
The sack is ripped off your head in an unruly manner, and your eyes squeeze to a close to combat the bombardment of light.
A string of hair-raising chuckles sounds vibrates against your ear, and you buck your head away from the man, only to be caught by the very tendrils of your hair, a massive fist clenching them and threatening to peel away at your scalp. You hiss out, instinctively leaning closer to his merciless hand to evade the screaming pull.
The maniac; he laughs once again, like a mad carnivore entrapping his prey. When you blink away the blindness, you can only see through glassy eyes, and you blink away the tears that had formed from the sting on your head.
Then you see Jungkook, and he’s not even that far away from you, calmly stood with heavy discs of iron clasped around his ankles. But you can see that the chains are at their limit, and even in his state of calm, his poise dictates that he is on the verge of breaking his skin trying to get closer to you.
He seeks your eyes with nothing more than a pulled lip as he assesses your exposed face. He makes no motion of finding satisfaction when he realizes you’re okay, aside from easing his eyes away from you and moving them to the man above you.
The grip on your hair barely relinquishes, but you sigh in relief anyways, fists clenched beyond their bindings in frustration and fear.
“You can probably assume that my dear brother and I are not on the same terms,” He gruffly states, though, with a hint of playfulness, and if you turned to see his face, you guess he’d be smirking.
“His territory is the last I must conquer to ensure my domination.”
“And what do you gain from claiming a small victory in the war you will lose?” Jungkook questions, vexed. He’s doing a great job with containing his anger, you gather, watching him work his knuckles from white and back as he stands coolly. Suddenly the fist in your hair clenches and rights you—a hiss seeping from your lips as you’ve no choice but to dead hang a few inches in the air from the strands.
“I do not believe that is your business—this civil conflict has nothing to do with you.” You bite down on your tongue to keep from screaming out, nails digging into the palms of your hands behind your back. The man in drapes bends to your level, chin scraping your shoulder until you feel his smooth cheek against yours. Then, grotesquely, he buries his nose into your hair, the suction of his inhale making you squirm as you have no choice but to breathe in his desert musk. He pulls back with a chortle of satisfaction, “You Americans—”, dropping you back into the chair. “Always meddling in affairs that have nothing to do with you.”
Rather suddenly, he wisps his hand away from you, stepping away. You take the moment to meet Jungkook’s eyes—and they are absolutely alight with fury, but you know his anger would do nothing to aid your situation, so you beg him, silently, to calm down.
His dark orbs waver, his jaw working beneath clenched teeth, and then he uses what will power remains to tear them away from you to, instead, glare down the enemy.
The man seems to enjoy watching the Sergeant slowly unravel, as when you sneak a glance, his blue orbs are dancing in excitement. You gulp, willing your nerves to relax and willing your fears to diminish.
“But I know you will not let me use you so easily.” Carefully, he paces around you, his bootfalls sounding like ominous echoes.
“What gave that away?” Jeon sneers, shifting his foot to face the other male and rattling the chains slightly. The man in robes pauses, his smirk growing, and he gently places a hand atop your shoulder. The number of times he’s had the audacity… You take a deep breath, turning your head the other way.
“I suppose I have my deranged ways to make you comply… but I feel my comrades are far more twisted than I when it comes to ladies.” He pats you once, twice, and your jaw falls slack as your thoughts find dark turns. Fear jets through your veins and you search for Jungkook’s eyes, hoping that you can seek some comfort for yourself this time, but all that stares back at you are deep chocolate abysses. You know what this means; as the man turns away from you, beckoning other men in the room to take their places at your sides, you know what this means.
It means you’re actually going to have to use the knowledge you gained from the detain and torture courses you received in your standard combative training.
And the only thing you learned is to keep your mouth shut.
He’s using you as blackmail to get guarantee Jungkook’s subordinance. And nothing fills you with more dread than coming to the realization that Jungkook has also received those trainings, so he will never submit. Part of you finds pride in what a dutiful soldier he is, and that he would never give in, even with your life on the line. The other part of you feels miserably sorry that he will have to watch his soldier die today.
Without realization, you’re thrown onto the ground, a blanket of dust swirling in the air around you, the ropes binding your ankles to the chair having been sliced and discarded.
Though your wrists are still at the base of your spine, and you feel this is as close to freedom as you’ll be. Without hesitation, you begin to kick at the men. There are two of them, and they tower over you, not quite like how the icy-eyed man does, but the sight still brings a strike of fear to your heart. They’re smiling, like hyenas, their grabby hands reaching for you as you attempt to wriggle away.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” You hoarsely yell, one of them snagging your knee and wringing you onto your stomach. You’re weak with exhaustion, and once the weight of one of them finds your back, you collapse with a hefty exhale.
You scream out, your hands pulled back by their ropes, before a glistening, shiny presence makes an appearance in your peripherals. Immediately, you realize it’s a blade, and your mouth snaps shut. Instead, you see past it, just to where you find Jungkook staring down at your crumpled form, his eyes turned angry and sad all at once. When you lock with his gaze, his teeth bare.
“GET THE FUCK OFF OF HER!!”
And thus ensues the beginning of his ferocious threats, all of which become numb to the ear once your pants are dragged to your knees. Weakly, you mumble out and try wriggling away, to no avail. Soon, your vision tunnels, and all you hear are far away calls from the sergeant who’s close to breaking his bones just to get out of the restraints.
Sand has entered your mouth as the blade has sliced through your underwear, and you don’t yet notice the way the draft tauntingly hits your exposed regions, your mind reeling and with everything and nothingness all at once.
“STOP, YOU MOTHER FUCKERS! I’LL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART!” You hear faintly, blindly staring at the soldier. He’s fallen to his knees, reaching out for you, his eyes wet. I’m so fucking sorry, they seem to say. I’m sorry I’m just a dog of the fucking military. I’m sorry I have no goddamn emotions. I’m sorry I was so wrong to you at first.
Your tears fall as the first swipe of the blade slices the back of your thigh. “It’s okay.”
You attempt to smile at him, to assure him, but he looks as though your words have defeated him. Another slice, and this time the numbness of your soul can’t fight the pain. You scream out, as the blade comes down, and you’ve no choice but to take it, feeling the gentle flow of blood down your leg, as a finger prods tauntingly at your dry core.
The other man is holding you down, his chortles in your ear, and you close your eyes, because it might not take the pain away, but it hurts less to not see the devastation in the eyes of Sergeant Jeon.
You wonder if he’s looking at you now the same way he looked at Yugyeom when he was dying.
And it almost fades to black until you are shaken back to life with an explosion that launches the room into a frenzy. That’s how your chapters seem to end. With an explosion. Except instead of a flurry of infiltrating flame meant for your demise, you hear the distant sounds of a firefight, and the very familiar sound of a round loading into a unique K-2 Black Panther Tank.
And then it hits you, as your eyes shoot open to gauge the hole in the wall.
It’s Taehyung’s tank.
Chapter 10
Notes:
Warning: violence and death
Chapter Text
The next few minutes are a blur of sands, battle cries, and a firestorm of bullets. The world rumbles around you as you blink against the dust—another unmistakable explosion of lead from the tank. You could almost scoff. Taehyung and his exquisite timing.
If he’s here then this firefight could turn into a war at any given moment. Exhaustion and shock tethers you to the ground, but you have enough energy to raise your head, gauging the status of the room. Your attackers have scattered, or been crushed by debris, and those who remain in the room frantically make for cover.
With your ankles unbound, you can maneuver yourself slightly, rising up to your knees, eyes searching for Jungkook. Shock fills you once your eyes follow a twinkle against the sunlight shedding into the room—what were once the chains that grounded the sergeant are now abandoned and laying to waste beneath some rumble from the ceiling.
But Jungkook is nowhere to be found.
“Jung-” you rasp, falling into a fit of coughs as you twist yourself around, just in time to see two men hauling the unconscious body of your sergeant fleeing the room. “No!”
Vigored with anger, your body raises, all notions of pain dissipating—the wounds on the backs of your thighs nothing more than a mess of blood you cannot feel.
Behind them trail their leader, and as if he senses your gaze, he turns around, icy eyes staring into the soul that’s become black with vengeance. And yet, even in the midst of machine gun fire, he is amused.
“It was a fun chat, little soldier. But I’m afraid your comrades have arrived to claim you, and the fun must end.”
You growl, working the ropes that are buried into your wrists at your tailbone. “Stop this! You don’t have to take him!” You scream out, stepping towards him.
The man’s smile falls as he seemingly ponders your words. In a serious tone, near silent amidst the gunfire, he says, “As I told you, my business is not your own. What I want is impossible without your lover.”
The word doesn’t even make a dent, it just passes you by, and you make no move to correct him; to correct yourself. Instead, you take another step forward, and the strategist within you knows that if you were to challenge him in your state, you wouldn’t stand a chance. But Jungkook and the men disappear from your sight, and you charge for them.
Vaguely, you see the icy-eyed man gesture for something, and as two hands grasp you from behind, wringing you away from wringing his neck, he turns around, his orbs peering over his shoulder as a smile plays on his lips.
“Goodbye, little soldier. I hope you had a fulfilling life.”
Then in his native tongue, he says something brief and blunt that could only be along the lines of “kill her”, because as soon as he’s said it and saunters off with his drapes flowing behind him, the tip of a blade is puncturing the skin of your jugular.
You cry out, shocked, dislocating your wrist as you struggle in your captor’s much firmer grasp. And you’re preparing for the darkness as blood trickles down your throat.
But darkness never comes.
Only a round of scattered pellets shot at point-blank range from a Spas-12 combat shotgun. Suddenly the weight grounding you against the man is lifted from your hips, and the knife drops.
You stumble forward, ready to eat sand again, when you’re suddenly being grasped in place, halting in place.
“Y/N!”
You could almost cry at the voice of your friend Jung Hoseok, or question why the grenadier just took down a man with a shotgun, but instead, you opt to throw your arms around him, his body armor scruffing against your face as you release a disbelieving laugh.
“Hoseok,” you grip him, breathing in his familiar scent, and his arms quickly cocoon you to his chest. “How did you find me?”
Hoseok chuckles, his Kevlar rumbling. “Well, you can thank Jeon for that. That bastard’s so reckless that command decided to keep a tracker on his uniform. Guess it finally paid off, huh?”
Your eyes widen as you recall something. “No need to be so embarrassed, L/N. If it means anything, they don’t trust that I won’t go on a suicide mission alone so they keep a tracker on me...” That’s what he had said back when the two of you were in the shack. You thought he was joking around, but he was actually serious. And even then…
You glance down to the uniform blouse that is far larger than your frame, and somewhats falls to your upper thigh. His. The one he dressed you in, knowing well that if anyone was going to come, they’d be going after whoever’s wearing the tracker.
Your heart suddenly feels heavy, and you release a quiet sob, eyes daring not to water in all the dry heat.
“Hey, hey,” Hoseok consoles, “It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna get you out of here.” At last, you think, a sliver of hope to make it out alive.
He didn’t come alone—some of your other platoon members crowd in, sealing the room with their hot barrels on the lookout for any stray enemy.
Hoseok pets your hair soothingly, but hope doesn’t last long—at the sound of another round being unleashed from the furies of Taehyung’s distant tank, you wake from your moment of comfort.
You pull away, and Hoseok assess you closely before you can turn and tail after Jungkook.
“Y/N,” you look into his confused, concerned eyes as he takes a look at where your pants and underwear are bundled around your knees still, the gashes coloring the backs of your thighs still bleeding without relent. He shields your body from the eyes of your other comrades, his own looking away to give you privacy.
“Don’t worry,” You say, turning slightly and stretching your arms back. Then the specialist wastes no time in salvaging a knife from his hip and slicing through the rope. Relief fills you and you grunt through the pain as you tug your clothing back to its original placement, greedily accepting the rifle swung around Hoseok’s back.
“Did they—?”
“No, they didn’t get the chance to.” You answer quickly, slinging the weapon properly. “Taehyung fired just in time.”
“Thank god.” He says under his breath.
“Don’t thank god. Thank Taehyung.” You crack a smile, and he finally greets you with one of his bedazzling ones.
Before any more time is wasted, you explain the situation to Hoseok as he hands you an extra comm.
“This is PFC L/N, prepare for a status report.”
“Y/N!”
You smile, accepting a magazine from Hoseok as he switches the spas-12 for the infamous grenade launcher that was on his back.
“Hey Taehyung.” Then your voice grows serious, “Sergeant Jeon has been compromised and his captors are on the move. Their goal is to escape with him alive.”
You pause, evaluating their plan of attack. “Who is the commanding officer of this offensive?”
“That would be me, L/N.” You almost drop a magazine, your eyes widening as Hoseok looks to you in question.
“Second Lieutenant Min?!”
Min-Fucking-Yoongi. How about that.
“That’s First Lieutenant Min to you, now. I was promoted since… well… we’ll save that conversation for another time.” He pauses, and Taehyung fires off again, the Panther sounding closer, and you have to cup your hands over your ears.
“I was transferred just in time to save your ass. You owe me another drink, after we get you the hell out of here.”
“Sir, I will buy the whole company three rounds if you get me the hell out of here.” A chorus of manly jeers hollers over the comms before Min quiets everyone down.
“This is my first time commanding an attack and I’m not gonna fuck it up. Listen up, you damn savages—”
The plan is simple: fall into Hoseok’s squad and directly follow the enemies while the remainder of the squads surround the compound. When they realize they have nowhere left to run, flank the enemies from the rear and obtain the hostage. If they see it coming and run for the hills… aim carefully.
The objective is to reclaim Sergeant Jeon and eliminate the enemy force.
It should feel surreal. It should feel like you’re trapped in a video game and if you get shot, all it takes is three seconds of healing with a med kit to get you back on your feet. You should feel nervous.
But you don’t. Your mind and body are reacting to battle as though you’ve served in multiple wars; as though unloading rounds into the enemies is the first thing you do everyday after breakfast.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline.
But deep down you know it’s just in your nature. It’s in your blood to be a good soldier.
At the cue of the Panther’s next round being fired, your small squad files down the hallway where Jungkook and the men disappeared to minutes ago. Strategically, head moving on a swivel, surveying all new areas for enemies, you follow just behind the point man, the barrel of your weapon itching to fire just as your trigger finger is itching to shoot.
Distracted by the explosion from the tank’s cannon, the enemies’ eyes are everywhere but the insides of their own building. The point man, a trusty specialist named Edwards initiates the attack.
“CONTACT, CONTACT, CONTACT!”
The squad fans out, Edwards beginning his fire as everyone respectively seeks cover. The room is wide and made for battle against enemies from the outside, so it has barriers of cement and sandbags piled high, and you find shelter almost instantly.
“Five enemies, one at your 3 o’clock, L/N!” Hoseok announces over the comms, the extreme closeness of the brief firefight causing you to strain for hearing.
“Got it!”
You swivel, spotting the tip-top of a head peeking out over a barrel. That’s plenty of target, you think, aiming down your sights and firing off two bullets. The first passes through the barrel into his face, and the second hits his forehead for good measure. An explosion of blood follows suit.
“Woo!” Private Rickens hollers at your right, having witnessed the scene unfold. “The Iron Bitch is back!”
You suppress a smirk, rolling over to take down one more with the assistance of Hoseok and his pistol.
“Saving the grenades?” You tease, wondering how he managed to carry all his weapons.
“Can’t fire them here, or else we all suffer the consequences.” He stands when the all-clear has been granted. “Alpha team moving forward to advance. Bravo, you’re clear to follow.”
When that’s said and done, Hoseok gestures for a file again, and then you’re back to it.
Worry grips your heart as you see the beginnings of desert sand beginning to invade your vision, afraid that you’ve already passed through the compound without catching up to Jungkook.
“We’ll find him,” Hoseok states firmly from behind you, and you nod back to him.
And suddenly, you’re out of the building, and your boots sink into loose sand. You see scattered footprints, two bodies, and in the far distance, a man in drapes struggling to haul an unconscious body towards a vehicle.
“Taehyung, the humvee!” Hoseok calls into the comm, the whole squad spotting the two as well, but you cut him off.
“No! They’re too close—if that thing explodes, they’re going with it.”
You scan your surroundings, hearing the gears of the Panther as it approaches from your right, a small convey of machine turret humvees emerging from your left.
But people are still firing, so—
“CONTACT!”
You’re stricken twice before you go down into a prone—once in the leg, the other in the shoulder. Hoseok screams out for you, but the pain is distant, and you watch the men who fired from the roof go flying after he sends off a single round from his grenade launcher.
A gentle mushroom cloud flows with grace above them, and you’re peppered with small chunks of debris, your hair flying back with the force of the blow. You blink quickly, confirming that the bodies are lost somewhere where that chunk of the roof has been blackened and dismembered.
“Y/N!” Hoseok calls again, and you can only think about Jungkook, eyes back to seeking the horizon.
“I’m fine. He was a shit shot.” You growl out, getting back to your feet. But you gasp as you spot the man seemingly wrestling with Jungkook— he’s awake!
They’re nothing but blurry bodies fighting one another off in the distance, but with harrowing realization, you see that Jungkook doesn’t have the upper hand, especially with a rifle pointed to his head.
“Jungkook!” You scream out, mind and body disbelieving this turn of events. The humvees won’t make it in time, and this man would kill Jungkook, even if he needed him, just to stay alive.
So you sprint forward, and your comrades call after you, and you ignore them, and you ignore your orders as you stop after a few meters, your recently wounded arm and leg miserably protesting your actions.
And you raise your rifle, the cool metal pressed against your cheek, finger slipping habitually against the trigger.
You see them down your optics, the iciness of the man’s blue eyes turning as if sensing your gaze from all these meters away.
His expression is rotten, angry—betrayed. By his men or by himself, you couldn’t say.
But you fire, and the blue of his eyes widens for a split second before falling behind the covers of their lids, as he crumbles into the sand, dead.
Chapter 11
Summary:
To be a combat medic means to be able to take lives, just as it means to be able to save them. That was in the unwritten text of your enlistment papers, and you thought that you couldn’t be more prepared for performing your military duties. But there was nothing in the contract about falling in love with your superior.
Medic! Soldier! AU
Reader x Jungkook
Warnings: Lots of violence, Gore, Major character deaths, smut (this one is a heavy M).
hi everyone!! I know, crazy right? A two-month hiatus! You should sue me!
:’D
I do feel really bad about that, but hey, we’re slowly but surely coming to an end with this fic, right? The next chapter is the last one! Woooooooooo!
Chapter Text
To be a combat medic means to be able to take lives, just as it means to be able to save them. You have taken more lives than you could have imagined when you signed your enlistment papers, but all at the cost of saving others. So when you think on it, no heavy feeling sinks into the pit of your stomach. No guilt. And yet, while your actions do not bring you distraught, they also don’t bring you glory.
Back home, you always imagined those war vets with heedy kill counts would take pride in their numbers, with how much blood they’ve spilt for their country, but now you can see it is not pride–it is nothing.
It is a teetering edge of a median you’ve never known, something, that if compared to anything, would be closest to a state of indifference.
But maybe it’s because it’s your job to save lives, so the solemness that comes with just taking them is spared from you–the killing and the saving cancel each other out to leave an emptiness that is too indescribable.
Because as you walk through the compound of injured men, heading back to your room after a gruelling day of stitching up, stopping the bleeding, and repeating, while combating the tiredness pulling at your lids, all you see are grave faces and cloudy eyes. You smirk bitterly to yourself–Hoseok had been so adamant that you get treated for your number of wounds, but all you could do was grin as you placed a single hello kitty bandage of assholery on the gaping flesh wound of your shoulder as you insisted it was your job to care for others before yourself.
Of course, you were in the most pain you’ve ever experienced life at one time, but it was nothing a shot of adrenaline couldn’t handle. Your comrades needed you, and with Jimin gone, you’d spent the remainder of the day working diligently alongside other platoons’ combat medics, patiently awaiting the helicopter from the nearest base full of supplies. They wouldn’t be in until morning, you’d heard, because tensions in the desert are still too high and it would be too much of a risk for them to fly.
The time came when you’d taken a step, working with someone named Sanders who was well-versed in suturing up lacerated limbs, and nearly collapsed. Sanders looked to you with absolute suspicion, and you hoped your wounds hadn’t started bleeding through the hastily-wrapped gauze roll on your shoulder and leg.
But you could see it in his eyes. He knew what you were battling, and he wasn’t going to challenge you like Hoseok had. It must be a combat medic thing. The whole ‘I will readily sacrifice my bleeding body for my battle buddies and no one can tell me no’. What he did though, was nod in the direction of the barracks, and wordlessly usher you off.
And this time, you went without a fight, because everyone else who needed treatment had already received it, and the moon was sharply shining from center sky, indicating you’d been nonstop for over eleven hours.
The slow walk back to your room is tedious with every step of exhaustion. You finally see the glint of the lamp outside your room, and now it seems the adrenaline is wearing off, and your eyes water.
You resort to dragging your leg behind you, your boot stirring in the sand, all the way up to your room, and you reach for the key from your cargos before noticing the door is bolted.
A pause in the air, you listen for anything indicating a presence from within, but then your shoulder throbs, and you push your way in with no more hesitation.
To hell with whoever broke into your room, you needed to sleep. At least that was what you thought before you see Sergeant Jeon on your bed, fingers drumming against the book you had left on the blanket. There is a pointed look on his face, as he stares you down, and all you can do is blink. When the platoon and rescue teams had returned to base earlier, he was fighting unconsciousness, a number of shrapnel scrapes and bruises lining his cheeks.
He had a concussion from being hit with the butt of the rifle, and you were unwilling to leave his side until another medic had ushered him away to rest, insisting that there were people with more grave injuries to be tended to, and that he was in good hands. That was the last you saw of him, but all the concern for him earlier is replaced with a tinge of annoyance.
“You broke in again?”
He huffs, tossing the book to the side, and rises to his feet. No lights in the room are on, but the moon is bright enough to pass through the blinds seamlessly, casting wicked shadows across his face as he walks to you.
“I told you to fuckin’ fix it already. Stubborn brat.” Something inside you knows he’s not just talking about the door, so you side-step around him, planting your hands to the bed, nearly kicking your boots off.
“I’m fine. All I have are flesh wounds and some cuts. Besides,” you face him, your calm nature being betrayed by the sudden spike of your heartbeat. “It’s nothing I couldn’t handle. See? I made it back to my room, and… everyone’s been treated.”
He’s wearing a frown that looks like he wants to insult you some more, but is reevaluating himself instead, and it amuses you to no end.
But the playfulness in the air dissipates when your knees buckle, and you’re lucky the bed is there to catch you. “Fuck.” You groan out, sitting back and laying down. There’s a moment of white noise that reminds you of the humvee explosion yesterday… yesterday? A few days ago? You have no idea. But you don’t hear the heavy footfalls of Jungkook, nor do you feel his weight sinking down into the bed beside you as he examines you with dark, scrutinizing eyes.
“Take off the blouse.” He’d said after your breathing went back to normal, and you’d stopped clenching your fists.
You huff out in tired frustration. “They’re not that bad–the guy was a garbage of a marksman. Besides, I already made sure the bullets are out and–”
“Y/N, take it off, or I’m taking it off for you.”
You swallow thickly, your throat dry and tender. There is no point in bothering to sit up, so you unzip the blouse with shaking fingers and carefully slip your arm from it. When your injured shoulder rotates to release from the confines of the material, you hiss out, and a large hand appears to assist you in ridding the thing.
You thank him in a slur, raising your hands up as his fingers graze the hem of your undershirt. He isn’t rough with you, like his body is used to being, but he’s not too gentle either as he works the cotton up over the curve of your breasts and maneuvers your head through the hole.
Your eyes had closed sometime during the process, and you soon find cool air brushing against your legs–your cargos are being dragged down, dropping from your feet easily. You feel a light lighter without all your gear, and you relax a little bit.
“Shit, L/N.”
“Hm?” You blink your eyes, tiredly meeting his gaze. He looks at you in absolute disapproval, inky eyes staring down his nose pointedly.
“You look like shit.”
You laugh, bringing your arm up to cover your eyes. “That’s the second time you’ve said that to me in days.”
Something tells you he isn’t pleased with your words, but you fall into a doze as he begins to wordlessly unwrap your clumsy gauze rolls from your shoulder and leg. The damage could’ve been a lot worse–it could’ve been fatal. But you were lucky, and no vital organs were struck by the shitty marksman who caused this.
But there were also the burns and shrapnel wounds marking your stomach and hip, and the dislocated wrist you had popped back into place (it was swelling pretty viciously now)… and the rolled ankle you got from dropping into the pit. As well as all the bruises and cuts from just normal soldier activities. So yeah, if he said you looked like shit, who were you to argue?
You stir when he grabs around your waist, scooting you further onto the mattress. A question lingers on the tip of your tongue, but you decide to ask it another time. You think you should take advantage of this tender moment.
“Why are you doing this?” You wonder aloud, and his warm hands still on your skin. He had tugged a simple medical bag onto your bed, one that you keep in your room for emergencies, and you gather he’s about to apply first-aid like he had done back in the shack. You pull your arm away from your eyes, turning your head and blinking against the silky streams of moonlight.
He breathes out somewhat of a stiff sigh, resuming his working hands to secure a fresh gauze around your leg wound. In just a pair of comfy boy shorts and a sports bra, the exposure makes your cheeks grow warm, but nothing in you wants him to distance himself.
“Because you can’t do it yourself.”
Not good enough, you think. “Then why don’t you call another medic from a different platoon?”
He senses you’re onto him–you can tell by the way his eyes dart away from yours, and for the first time you feel as though you have the upper hand on him.
“You’re in my squad. I’m not gonna burden someone else with my shit.”
You roll your eyes. You feel like that’s as close as he’d come to admitting he cared for you, even though he did subtly insult you again. So with that, you crack a smile, pleased that you got something out of him.
“Oh? So I’m your shit, huh?” Amazing. This must be the fatigue playing with you. This isn’t like you at all–teasing the sergeant for reactions… You love it.
You hiss out as he tightens the gauze, purposely too taught, and your amusement is brushed to the side. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it as much. Typical.
Instead of calling him out on it, you watch him. He’s between your legs, standing right at the edge of the bed. His dark eyes are seeking your skin for anything else that needs to be taken care of. He’s already redressed the bandages on your stomach, the bullet wounds, and applied some cream to the scattered scratches and scuffed up bits.
You think back to the last time you were in this position. Back in the IED pit. When you’d ground your way to orgasm against his hard-on. When you’d kissed so hard you’d seen stars, his climax dripping from your calloused hand.
You know you’re playing a dangerous game when you slowly bend your knees around his, inviting him closer. At once, his eyes darken, locking onto yours. “L/N.” He says in warning.
“Why did you kiss me, Sergeant?”
His expression does not falter, but the hooded inkiness of his eyes swims in the moonlight, as though he’s fighting the words he wants to say.
You nudge him slightly, close enough that he has to reach forward, supporting his weight with the hands planted beside your head.
“Why did you say you’ve been waiting to fuck me for so long?” Your words do not feel like your own. It’s like you are watching from a third person view, seeing the shell of yourself ask questions you weren’t sure you wanted to be voiced.
Jungkook’s breath fans against your cheeks, his eyes challenging you like a wolf’s, ready to assert his dominance if you were to make the wrong move.
But you aren’t afraid of him, in that moment. You’re not in the slightest intimidated. Because you know all about Sergeant Jeon now, and if he wasn’t being truthful when he’d said those words, he’d tell you now. He’d let you down so hard, that you couldn’t help but hate him. If that time in the pit was just something he’d wanted in the moment, and now that you’re both alive and well, he’d have no issue in tossing you to the side.
But he isn’t saying anything, so you, drunk on weariness, and pain, and the musky, sweaty smell of him, raise an arm around his neck and pressing your lips against his. He doesn’t quite respond, rather, his lips simply part as though he is in shock.
His are a bit dry, and you wonder if he’s taken the time to eat or drink anything all day, and it reminds you that you haven’t either. After a bit, you remove yourself from him, lying down to ease the protest of your aching body.
And you look up at him, your eyes on the verge of falling into the comfort of unconsciousness. When they close, he leans in, and the gentlest of pressures is pressed against your lips, one of his hands curling around your head.
And it ends there, because shortly after, you’re fast asleep.
—
You wake when Hoseok knocks on the door, and after a brief exchange of words regarding the meetings in the afternoon with the new commander and the base’s command sergeant major, you discard all of Jungkook’s dressings with care and shower quickly, departing for a much needed breakfast.
There’s always an underlying formal part of deployment life, because it’s not all just bang-bang, boom-boom. No–there are very strict rules that have to be followed and reiterated on the daily. Every action has been planned and approved by the higher-ups, and if one disobeyed orders, severe consequences may follow.
None of the events from yesterday seem to have crossed a line, but it’s out of mere formality that the parties involved are all questioned for documentation purposes. And given your confinement and suffering of near-torture, needless to say, you are one of their priorities.
Jungkook has already had his session, you hear from Hoseok, and you haven’t seen him all morning. You woke up with a certain giddiness in your chest after realizing he had kissed you back just as you were conveniently falling asleep.
Of course, it wouldn’t have lead into anything more… extreme, given your state of physical being–getting out of bed was a hassle, and trudging through the sand to headquarters is ever more of a bitch.
When you announce your entry after giving the door a solid three knocks, a common courtesy when entering a superior’s office, you hear the voice of First Lieutenant Min beckon you in, as he was expecting you.
The room isn’t as grandiose as you expected it to be–then again, you’ve never had a reason to walk into the commanding officer and sergeant major’s direct business establishment. You were nervous at first, but the room is quite quaint, dusty, and a little cozier than anticipated. Lieutenant Min meets you at the door, as if to guide you in, and you swallow heavily as you spot the faces of the base’s leaders sat comfortably at a round table in the middle of the room.
These are men that you have never spoken with in person, but see them often around post. Individual platoons are led by sergeants like Jeon, and the individual companies that the platoons are in are lead by commanders like Lieutenant Min, but the ones in charge of all the companies… They are sat before you now.
You stop at the head of the table, beside an empty chair you presume is for yourself. At the appropriate position, you salute the base’s colonel, and greet the both of them.
“Please, please,” He gestures with his hands, “Relax, Private L/N. Leave the formalities at the door.”
You nod, and take a seat as Min sits beside you. In the corner of your eye you spy Jeon molded against a wall, barely discernible with the shadows embracing him.
“He’s here to make sure you don’t leave anything out.” The blonde to your side says in hushed tones. It’s odd that Jungkook’s in the room, but it makes sense–after all, he is your direct superior, and you were together the majority of the time since that first IED went off.
It all goes swimmingly, for what must be twenty minutes, and it’s really just been you recounting the events of every engagement with the enemy. You thanked the heavens above that they were going off a list of formal questions–simple things like who engaged first, how many rounds were fired, etc.
Min, being the commander of your company, was there to document all of these accounts, and later send them to another headquarters in too much of an official manner for you to recognize. So when he closes up the binder before him, a clear indicator that the questioning is over, you prepare to take your leave, hoping to catch up Hoseok and check on the patients from the mission.
But something passes in the commander’s eyes as you wait for your permission to leave, and you can tell right away something’s wrong. It’s something in his wrinkled brow, like he’d preparing to tell his daughter their dog died.
“Private L/N, I understand what we’re about to tell you is going to be difficult, and you will likely disagree with it.”
Your mouth dries–what happened? What could it be? Did you mess up? Did you disobey orders? Your fingernails dig crescents into your palms atop your lap, leg bouncing feverishly.
“Yes, sir?” You pry, barely able to maintain your cool, you eyes darting nervously to Sergeant Jeon across the room, but as though he was anticipating your gaze, he is visibly avoiding your eyes.
“You’re being reassigned back to the states until you are cleared mentally and physically fit for a return to duty.”
Your jaw nearly drops, and your heart hammers so loudly, you’re sure it can be heard around the room.
“F…fit, sir?” Your mind is reeling, and you can’t help the tremor in your voice. You stared into the pitying eyes of the older men, silently begging that they just be hilariously funny men, and that they’ve been pranking you this whole time. “I don’t understand.”
The sergeant major meets his accomplice’s eyes briefly, and then turns to you, the single overhead light casting a shine across his bald head.
“You are currently unfit for duty due to the injuries of two bullet wounds and several burns and lacerations, so we would be authorized to hold you until you are healed and reevaluated for further service in your company. But the situation is more severe than that.”
You blink, images of being bound and threatened by a knife coming to the forefront of your mind.
“We’ve been informed that you experienced trauma at the hands of torturers, and you might seem unphased by the situation, but we do have regulations we must observe.”
The sergeant major was more firm when he spoke, like he had no problem in going into exact detail what this entails for you, but it doesn’t make hearing that you’re worthless feel any better.
You gulp, fisting your cargos at the knees. “With all due respect, Sergeant Major, I will acknowledge I was in a situation where it seemed as though I was being… tortured.” You don’t quite know how you’re going to say this. “But I can guarantee that my performance will not be hindered by that experience. Just ask my squad leader, or Sergeant Jeon. They witnessed me perform my duty well after it happened.”
“Private, Sergeant Jeon is the one who recommended you for unfit duty.”
Suddenly it feels like your whole world is being turned upside down, and angry betrayal courses through your bloodstream. You stare at the mentioned man in shock, and yet, he’s still refusing to look at you, his face void of any expression–not even guilt.
“B-but I–”
“We’re sorry, but these are your direct orders, Private.”
Your mouth snaps shut, and you slowly stand. You can see it in their eyes. They don’t want to do this. But they have to because it’s on their head if you suddenly crack one day due to mental instability caused by a traumatic experience. And that’s a lot of paperwork no one wants to do. You feel Min at your side, with his piercing gaze contorted in concern.
But like the good little soldier you are, you nod in understanding, despite your head throbbing and your heart stuttering, “I understand.”
Then you pivot on your heel and make for the door, and despite it not being a very formal exit, what else did they expect when they were planning to tell you your entire career has suddenly gone to shit? What else did they expect when they said it was because the very man you loved told them to send you back to where you came from?
Outside the door, you break out into a sprint, ignoring the protest of your wounds, and you wait until you are within the safety of your barracks room, your shower–still entirely dressed with the water on hot and high–to let the panicked sobs break out from your chest in painful bursts of distress.
And the Iron Bitch cries alone for the rest of the day, cursing Jeon Jungkook with every breath.
Chapter 12
Summary:
To be a combat medic means to be able to take lives, just as it means to be able to save them. That was in the unwritten text of your enlistment papers, and you thought that you couldn’t be more prepared for performing your military duties. But there was nothing in the contract about falling in love with your superior.
Notes:
THE FINAL CHAPTER IS HEREEEEE
over a year in the making, and i finally complete another series. ah. what a relief.
i truly, truly loved this one, and i recieved such appreciation from you guys-- i wish i was more attentive and had the will to write for you more. honestly. thank you for everyone who stuck around, even if not from the start. you guys are the reason i found the will to deliver this 7k word bad boy today.
here we go. let's do this.
Chapter Text
The air is moist as you step outside, the foreboding sign of an approaching wet winter making its presence known. You frown slightly, but only because a dew drop from last night’s rain has conveniently rolled off the roof of your apartment building and struck against your cheek.
You swipe at it with your scarf before tightening the material around your neck, its deep navy blue complimenting the hazy world around you. It is a Saturday, and after seven months of spending Saturdays in leisure, you’re still not used to walking outside and not smelling the dust of the desert.
Seven months of mandatory physical and emotional therapy (the latter being more laborsome, of course), and being stuck in a medical supply unit where it is no longer your task to heal the wounded, but to supply those who do, has not necessarily taken a toll on you. Rather, it’s bored you half to death.
Sometimes you wake up in shivers, tears, sweats–reliving past experiences and explosions. And you wonder why you still prefer that life over this far more mundane, generic one.
But today’s special, you think as you cross the streets with a slightly more excited bounce in your heels. Since leaving the desert, Hoseok and Taehyung were adamant about maintaining contact. They were some of the few who actually knew what happened when you were bound in captivity, and well, given the depressing number of servicemen who lose the will to live after traumatic experiences, they were very forward with their concerns for your emotional health.
You were fine.
Sometimes you weren’t; but that’s fine. And despite your best efforts to put their worries at ease, once every few weeks you received phone calls off those shitty satellite phones they use out in the desert.
You really did miss them, and you often wonder how they’re doing. Hoseok, Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungk–.
You nearly trip over the curb, cursing your thoughts. You don’t need to think about him.
Anyways, a few weeks ago, Hoseok gave you a call at the ass crack of dawn. It was the late evening for him, but you didn’t curse him out because you look forward to every call from the desert.
“Yeah, so Taehyung took that ‘death before dismount’ thing literally. The Tiger was smoking–about ready to blow–and that sonuvabitch said his goodbyes to us over the comms. I almost cried.”
Your breath hitches. His story-telling of another supply-mission-gone-wrong is riveting, and you feel your heart clench. The idea of Taehyung ready to die for the sake of going down with his ship–or tank, rather–is so like him, but the idea of another one of your friends dying in combat is hard to fathom.
“Luckily, Jeon was there and practically dragged him from it before it blew up. Tae was pretty pissed until Captain Min announced that they were already sending over the newest model of the Tiger for him to test-run. Then he about shit his pants in joy.”
You dismiss the name of your past platoon sergeant with ease, something you find yourself doing often in these conversations, and with a tired chuckle, “so he’s Captain Min, now?”
“Oh yeah, this guy must’ve been loaded with promotion points. He’s a real dickhead, but strangely, I’m into it.”
You share a laugh before he continues, the busy shuffling around him going quiet.
“By the way… guess who’s coming home.” You drop your palm from sleepily rubbing your eyes, his pause on the line giving you a chance to piece the words together.
“You got your orders?” you question in disbelief, jolting awake. He chuckles on the other end.
“I did. Most of the platoon did. You should see this place–shit’s been hectic the past week. Our replacements got here, and all the newbies are learnin’ the ways. I’ve even got my own squad now.” The horrible ring of static on his end doesn’t tarnish the absolute joy in his tone, and you find your heart racing in excitement for all your old comrades.
“Hoseok, that’s amazing!”
“I know! Been out here so long, I almost forgot what it feels like to be home… ”
You chat for a while longer, learning that not only is your base the recipient of wounded and unfit soldiers, but also for soldiers coming home from deployment. He tells you when they’ll be flying in, and then tells you he has to go–he has accountability to be in charge of. With a proud smile, you hang up, your heart racing in anticipation, as you can only hope that the weeks pass quickly.
And today is the day. You’ve already showered, cleaned up the house, and embarked towards the post exchange to pick up some groceries, planning to surprise the guys with a home-cooked meal. Initially, you didn’t want to intervene on that precious moment when they step foot back in their mother-country, only to be embraced by loved ones. But their orders came on such short notice, that their families weren’t prepared for the travel to the base, and they’d be arriving a few days later.
So, really, you were the one they were coming home to, and something about that makes your heart grow warm, even on this chilly afternoon.
They were set to arrive to base around 10 this morning, and now it’s just after 1PM. When you arrive to the in-processing center, you can barely control your nerves.
Hoseok had told you to come later, because the paperwork to process the soldiers coming home from deployment is an absolute tedious bitch of a process. They should be finishing up around now, you ponder, lip caught between your teeth as you enter the headquarters.
You look around the dull room, the civilian workers diligently at duty, despite it being a Saturday. You immediately recognize some faces of those seated behind desks, and if not for having worked alongside them for months, anyone would have been able to see these were soldiers coming back from a long deployment–worn and weary, but with a gleam of relief in their eyes.
You smile warmly at them, wondering if they recognize you too–but you can’t stay focused on them too long.
“Y/NNNNNNNN!” Nothing prepares you for the body barreling into you, and before long, your arms are tightening around the solid shoulders of a one tank driver, Kim Taehyung, grinning cheerfully as tears threaten to spill from your eyes.
And you look up just in time to lock eyes with Hoseok, who drops his hefty duffel bag to the ground before rushing over to do the same.
“Oh, it is so damn good to see you again,” He says into your hairline, all four of their arms crushing you.
You smile wistfully, uttering, “it’s good to see you too.”
Naturally, after eating an early dinner of your prepared pasta meal and spending hours catching up, lounging around your apartment, Taehyung suggests going out for drinks. And who are you to argue?
It’s after 10PM, and you’re resting your head on the wall the booth is up against, watching Taehyung maneuver the dance floor. The small bar on base turned into two dinky bars nearby, and then a nightclub in the next city. You stopped drinking a while ago, savoring this state of tipsiness where you can just relax without getting shitfaced.
You’re smiling, because you always knew Taehyung wouldn’t be THAT guy at the club–the one who’s sidling up to the ladies, buying drinks and the like–because really, he’s just here to enjoy himself. He’s dancing drunkenly, outrageously, but he’s having the time of his life in that crowd.
You and Hoseok are off in a corner booth, where it’s quiet enough to have a decent conversation and still somewhat be involved in the nightlife. You feel Hoseok’s eyes on you.
“Hm?”
You turn your cheek, eyes locking with his. He looks good. Healthy. Well, he and Tae were always the cheerful ones, despite the battles and the losses. But now… something beyond his gentle layering of stubble, and extremely out of regulation hair length makes him seem at complete ease.
“It’s so weird to see the Iron Bitch working a desk job.” You have to scoff, you just have to. It’s been so long since someone’s called you that. It’s true, you haven’t really had ample opportunity to display your set of particular skills while working in the supply office, but you feel that you never actually had a connection with that nickname anyways.
“They don’t really need me popping off an insurgent’s head when I’m doing syringe inventory, sorry.”
Hoseok laughs into his beer. He’s taking it slow tonight, too. He places the glass down, leaning back, somewhat mirroring your position against the wall. His chocolate locks fall into his gleaming eyes.
“You’ve changed.” He states simply, warmly, and you try to read him. “Not in a bad way. I mean,” His eyes flit across your features. “When I first met you, you were so serious. A textbook soldier. And the things I had heard about you–about the Iron Bitch–well, now I feel like I’m looking at a new person.”
You look away from him, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention in his gaze. He continues. “I’m not trying to scrutinize you. I’m saying I saw what deployment did to you, and I’m seeing what working here has done to you, and you’re so much more relaxed. You used to never crack jokes, or slouch, even.”
His words are honest, and he has a small smile perched upon his lips when you glance over at him. But you can’t help growing conscious of your posture, trying to subtly roll your shoulders back. “So it just seems like I got the stick out of my ass, right?”
“Heh,” he rolls his eyes, “this is a prime example. When I first met you, I’ll be honest, I was pretty intimidated. No one gets a nickname like that unless they mean business. But you ended up being so much more than that kind of soldier.”
You have to look away again, the praise causing your cheeks to grow warm.
“And now you look like you have no problems sleeping in, or running late to a meeting… I’m glad I got to watch you change. And all I’m saying is that whole Iron Bitch thing… maybe she wasn’t even there. It was just you. It was just Y/N. ”
For a moment you hesitate, debating taking another sip of liquid courage, but maybe he’s right, and you don’t really know how to respond to that.
“Yeah, you look good too, champ.” Is what you say instead, and you can’t meet his eyes right away, taking a swig of your beer as he chuckles. Your hair, now long enough to be put in a bun on duty days, sways around your shoulders as you seek out Taehyung again, who is now engaged in a dangerously long conga line.
You smile.
The Iron Bitch? You don’t even know her anymore.
“Thank you Hoseok.” Then you face him, your thoughts growing grim. “I wish Jimin was here… I feel like he would be tearing it up out there.”
You could curse yourself for spoiling the atmosphere, but luckily Hoseok is there with you, and he would never let you do that.
“You kidding me? Right about now, he and Taehyung would be in one of those hip-hop dance battles they used to show on MTV in the 90s.”
You share a laugh, silently thanking him again, because yes, his words did make you feel better. You’ve stopped growing cold and numb at the thought of your lost friend, but instead, you think of the good times. The good memories.
“His service was beautiful.”
You’re referring to his memorial service. When you had first arrived off of deployment, you took leave to witness the burial, using his obituary you found on the online newspaper of his hometown. It was in your best interest to go, and after you watched the pristine, white casket be lowered to be accepted by the Earth, an ache in your chest, you were soon approached by a pleasant, tearful older woman, who ended up being his mother.
“Oh, of course I recognize you, sweetheart… he always talked about you, and how beautiful you are,” you remember her saying with a sad smile, her eyes red, fighting the tears. You held it together pretty well then, in front of her, but when you returned to your hotel, you had sobbed all night.
Hoseok hums, “of course it was.”
“I ended up having tea with his parents the next day. They wanted to keep in contact with me. They even dropped me back off at the airport.”
“So you still talk with them?”
“Occasionally.” You smile fondly, finger drumming your beer bottle.
The pair of you grow quiet for some time, simply enjoying being together after so much time apart. That, and of course, watching Taehyung is pretty marvelous.
After a while, Tae still significantly drunk, you and Hoseok haul him from the club and you hail a taxi to take you back to base. You had offered to let them crash at your place, casually bragging that with your promotion to specialist, you could afford to live outside of the barracks, but Hoseok was firm with his need to change clothes back at their temporary dorms.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind. I feel like he snores monstrously.” You pour the half of Taehyung that you were supporting onto the explosives specialist, and he makes a face at you, tucking his share of the taxi fare into your jean’s pocket.
“Wow, thanks for reminding me. I might take you up on that.” He starts off, but then stops, dipping under Taehyung’s arm and then depositing him onto the curb.
He turns, and you face him in question. Then, he approaches, hugging you warmly to his chest, and you can still smell that scent of desert engraved in his skin.
“I’m so happy to see you~~!” He says childishly, pulling back enough to land a sloppy kiss on your cheek, ruining the moment.
“Ahah, okay, okay!” You pat his back, wiping the moisture he left from your cheek, watching him grin innocently.
“Have a goodnight. Make sure he doesn’t choke on his vomit.”
“Aye, aye,” Hoseok throws a shitty salute at you and gathers the other man from the ground, and you slink back into the taxi, watching them waddle off with a sense of joy you haven’t felt in a long time.
It feels so good to know that they’re here; that they’re safe. And even if you’ve only known them just over a year or so, it feels like you’re all childhood friends who are reuniting.
Just that… some people are missing.
Jimin, who can never meet his friends again. Captain Min Yoongi, who’s still out there in the sea of sand, commanding new and old soldiers, and of course…
You roll your eyes. He really can’t stay off your mind too long. You should blame him, but really, you’re the one who can’t let go.
I wish it was as easy for me to throw him away as it was for him to send me off.
You think bitterly during the brief drive to the on-base housing region. You pay the taxi driver generously, dipping out with a slight wobble, the tipsiness on your tongue still partially prominent.
The cold air of the night has you tucking your chin into your scarf, fishing for your keys in your purse. Fortunately, on this winter’s night, the moon is bright and big, and you locate them quickly, hurrying up the stairs to the second floor.
And at your door, you’re met with a sight that has you dropping your keys back into your purse.
“Jungkook.”
You’ve never seen him in civilian clothes, but the black leather jacket isn’t much of a surprise. His hair is shaggy, longer than you remember, but it’s still that shade between ebony and chocolate that matches his eyes.
His legs don dark jeans, and they’re tucked fittingly into black boots, something that isn’t too far off from the usual military get-up, but maybe he doesn’t know any better than a tactical approach to life.
His eyes are set heavily on you, and anyone else wouldn’t be able to see through that menacingly blank expression he wears. But you’re not anyone–and you can see he’s tired.
You feel yourself gawking, but really, why are you so surprised? You knew he was with the group coming back from the desert, and you should be more surprised that you didn’t run into him earlier. Except he’s evidently sought you out, and who knows how long he’s been waiting outside of your door.
You recover soon enough, lips sealing into a line as you try to hide your shock, hand dipping back into your purse for your keys again.
“Y/N.”
You look down, trying to busy yourself, as you make past the door. You can’t do this. You weren’t ready for this.
So you try to ignore him, your heart racing as you feel the warmth radiating off his form when you reach your door.
He calls out your name again, and you see him move from the corner of your eye. The key goes into the lock with no problem, and you quickly turn it, pushing the door barely an inch before it comes flying back at you with a slam.
Fury ignites within you, and you turn around, shoving his hand off the handle, words seething at your lips. “Sergeant,” you hiss, “It’s incredibly inappropriate that you are trying to invade in my personal space, and I’m going to have to ask you to fuck off.”
The burn in your words causes even you to wince, and you reassess your anger. No, this wouldn’t look good on paper. He’s still my superior.
He almost looks unphased by your quiet outburst, but if the subtle raise of his brow were to be anything, it would be a fragment of surprise, before he quickly neutralizes his expression, eyes glowing darkly.
“I will. Just listen to me, first.”
And with that, you have to curse yourself again. Because for almost a second, you actually consider giving him the time of day. But no. Hoseok was right–the textbook soldier all that time ago would’ve taken it as a direct order, but that’s not who you are anymore. So instead, you cross your arms and glare at him through daggers’ eyes.
“If you really gave a shit about me hearing you out, you should’ve kept me around.”
Your words are challenging, and at this proximity, you can see the gears turning behind his eyes. It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through. You were so loyal to him, like a fucking dog, and he dismissed you without batting an eye.
“I don’t care about what you have to say.” It’s a lie, you know, but you want him out of your sight. Even though he is a machine crafted by war and strength, you want to be the reason he stutters or cracks. Because he did that to you.
“Get away from my house.” You prod a finger against his shoulder, with the intent on distancing him, or at least giving him a hint, but his expression falters slightly, and he hisses out, body jerking away. You’ve worked long enough in the medical field to know what that means.
Instantly, you’re examining his body, and gone is the tipsiness that you were so cozy with all night. No, it’s only in your nature to heal people, and you watch the way he works his injured area back into relaxation, trying to hide his weakness from you.
He nods, eyes turning away, his jaw strong as he grinds his teeth in what appears to be frustration. But he’s relenting, you can see, and he begins to walk away.
You should’ve left him. You should’ve turned away and went into your apartment. But his left arm is stiff when it should be swinging, and you roll your eyes with an exasperated sigh.
“Wait.”
He freezes, and the second he turns back, you see a flash of hope reflecting in his dark orbs before it disappears. He doesn’t say anything, and you bite your lip, eyes cinching shut as you berate yourself mentally for actually doing this.
“I’m going to regret this… but come inside.”
Taking pride in the notion that you aren’t as flustered as you once were the first time you saw him shirtless, you unwind the wrap from his shoulder at a professional’s pace.
Your apartment is still shrouded with darkness, except where you’ve sat him in the kitchen. Leave it to a combat medic to have a supply closet’s worth of medical equipment stored under her sink.
He looks off to the right, not saying much as you finally remove the entirety of the dressings. “Fucking hell…” you murmur under your breath at the sight. His shoulder is splotchy with red and blue bruises and crawling from his collar bone to his bicep is a poorly stitched laceration.
Fortunately, the wound seems days old, and most of the healing appears to be completed–aside from the evidence of an infection lacing the threads of his tender skin.
You frown after him, imagining the circumstances with which he adorned this injury. It easily could’ve been fatal if it was in another spot, given the apparent the depth of it, concern flooding the back of your mind. You shake it off.
“It’s infected. I’m going to remove the stitches and try to clean it.” You say impassively, as though treating a patient. It’s been a while since you’ve performed first aid, and busting out the heavy duty medical bag you had stored in your kitchen makes you a little excited.
Though, anyone else would think you’re crazy, but treating people certainly beats doing inventory.
You get to work right away, barely phased by the proximity. Having him so close after so long. Touching his bare skin. You take standard-issue scissors and snip at the old threads, careful not to strike his flesh.
“Who sutured this?” you question quietly in disbelief, not recognizing the stitching pattern to be anything a medic is taught.
“I did.” He responds, just as quiet. No surprise there. He’d be the one who gets injured and doesn’t see a professional for it. You remember analyzing several of his scars and coming to the same conclusion.
“Huh. You had no problems fixing me up, but this looks like shit.” You humor yourself, eyes following the haphazard pattern of thread passing through his skin. It looks chaotic, as though he was in a state of frenzy when beginning the procedure. Well, it would have hurt a lot, and the angle would have been hard to self-perform on, so you don’t particularly blame him on that part.
“That’s because it was for you.” you pause momentarily, stomach lurching. You don’t say anything in response.
For a while it’s just snip, snip… snip. Carefully. He’s not moving, but you can tell he’s trying to keep himself under control of the pain.
A quick glance down confirms his fists are clenched, and you frown at the sight of his white knuckles. With your free hand, unthinking, really, you place it atop his wrist, and he flinches at the contact.
“Relax. It hurts, I know, but your blood won’t circulate properly if you’re all wound-up.”
You remove your hand, not giving him the chance to enjoy the moment, continuing your duty. Duty. That’s what this is. You’re doing this out of sheer obligation because it’s your job.
And the whole time, your stoic facade is shielding the racing, aching of your heart. You imagine this is what it feels like to be partnered up to do a science project with the person who rejected your confession in high school. The absurdity of it sobers up your solemn thoughts for a moment, and you’re glad you can still joke in a time like this.
After disposing of the thread, you peel gauze from a pack and soak it in alcohol, securing your latex gloves. “Alcohol,” you warn simply, pressing the saturated material against the wound, ensuring to get the creases with signs of oozing infection.
Jungkook seems to have heeded your advice, and this time, he’s completely relaxed, seeming indifferent to the sting of the substance. When you set the gauze aside, he speaks up.
“How are you?”
You don’t think he’s ever asked you this question with sincerity behind it, but you blink away the surprise and continue to work diligently. “I’m fine. I work in the supply office now.”
Jungkook quietly muses over your response and it nearly seems like he won’t talk again. Then, after a few moments of you removing your gloves, “I didn’t want to send you away.”
This causes you to freeze, and you look up at the ceiling, tossing the latex to the countertop. Ah, yes… like this, gravity will force the tears back into your eye sockets until you calm down again.
You reach into your medical bag for fresh wrapping. “But you did. You ordered for it.”
The sergeant makes a noise that sounds between a groan and a growl, and you shiver with the change in his atmosphere. He’s pissed, you can see that much. You brush it off, swallowing thickly, tapping at his arm so raises it and you can wrap the binding around his shoulder and chest.
“I know what I fucking did, I just–” He exhales sharply, his other hand sliding down his face out of frustration. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. That shit in the compound… I wanted to fucking kill myself for not being able to protect you.”
With an all too unnecessary tug, you tighten the material until he releases a hiss, and you back away, turning your back to him as you begin pouring all your equipment into the bag.
“Everyone gets hurt. We’re soldiers. We were out on deployment. We signed up for this.” You state simply, willing to keep your emotions at bay.
Jungkook rises behind you–you can feel his shadow encompassing yours. “But I didn’t want that for you!” He seethes through his teeth, his breath fanning against your hair. “I gave too much of a shit, and I could never live with myself knowing that if you were out there, there was always a chance for it to happen again!”
By the end of it, there’s a ring echoing around your kitchen. You stare blankly ahead, eyes hot with rage and sadness, tears brewing over the edge, ready to make their presence.
You turn around, spine going to the countertop, finding his arms caging you in.
“I was in love with you, Jungkook. I was so in love with you and I didn’t even realize it.” His eyes are quivering, and his beautiful, pouty lips are parted as he takes you in. “But you sent me here without even consulting with me. How do you think that made me feel? That after all the shit we went through, and the joy of finally getting out of that situation, and after how close we got, you had no problems with pushing me away?”
Your throat is tight in that way when you know you’ll start sobbing, but you gulp heavily, lifting a shaking hand to cup his scarred, bruised, and scuffed cheek, his jaw sharp in your palm.
“I wasn’t just a combat medic. I was your soldier. I was meant to be there fighting with you and treating you. Learning that you didn’t trust me to do those things is what hurt the most.”
Jungkook’s eyes close, and he almost looks pained, his rough, calloused hand moving up to clasp yours. “No, no. I–” he sighs out, expression flattening. “I trusted you the most. Fuck, you were the best goddamn medic I’ve ever seen, and you were the only one I trusted with my life every time we were out there. And I’m not good with this love shit or anything–”
He stops, eyes homing in on yours.
“It’s because you were my soldier… and because I cared too much for you.” A tear rolls down your cheek as he gently closes his fingers around your hand, moving it down between you. “I didn’t want to lose anyone else.” His voice cracks in frustration, and he looks down, eyes hidden behind his shaggy bangs.
Horror claws at your chest, as you see this brilliant, strong force of man breaking down before you, because of you. Because he didn’t want to see you die like he saw Jimin, or Yugyeom, or all of the other people he silently cared about die. This is what you wanted. This revenge. But it tastes like poison, and you hate it. You hate seeing him like this. You don’t want it.
Without another thought, your arms circle his broad chest, and you cry into his skin, and he returns it right there in the middle of your homey kitchen. He wouldn’t tell you he loved you, because that’s not his style. But this was as close as you were going to get.
“I can’t forgive you for leaving me,” you sob out, messily. His arms are squeezing you to him. “But I can’t fucking hate you.”
He stays in your bed that night, having somehow maneuvered there in the midst of your tearful embrace.
And in the morning, right around nine or so, you wake up and you feel the aftermath of your emotions like dried cake on your cheeks, and while Jungkook is still lightly dozing, you take a shower. Steam billowing from the showerhead, you wonder what this means for you now. You’re still angry but… finally understanding why he did what he did brings a pleasant calm to your chest. So he did feel things for you. Huh.
Whatever those things may be are a mystery, but he still accepts you even after that shoddy confession last night. “I was in love with you”… you frown. The loving never stopped. That’s why it hurt so bad to see him in front of your door. That’s why the last seven months, there has been a hole in your chest, and his name was always on the tip of your tongue when you’d call with Hoseok or Taehyung.
You turn off the shower and wrap a towel around yourself, moving back out to your room to change. Jungkook is still asleep, and you’re quiet–you remember how light of a sleeper he is, but judging by the weary circles beneath his eyes that are prominent even in his slumber, you can tell he was a lot more tired than you’ve ever seen. And you wonder if he’s had issues sleeping just as you had. But still, his skin is just as golden, and his face is more relaxed, more youthful.
He still isn’t wearing a shirt, the sheets barely covering his rigid abdominals, and your eyes trace all the scars decorating him. He wouldn’t be the same man without his battle scars. Then your eyes dip down to the beginnings of hair lining his naval, disappearing into his jeans. You swallow, noting gratefully that he’d had the decency to take off his boots sometime during the night, but you can’t dismiss the way his body in amidst your blankets is making you feel.
“It’s rude to stare, Private.” The man in your bed suddenly mumbles, and you startle, but you’re not too shocked. Though his tone is mumbled and quiet, you can hear the gentle tease in the way he addresses you.
“My apologies, Sergeant. And it’s Specialist now.” You throw back at him, pleased to find how easy it is to drop the seriousness.
Jungkook’s eyes blink open, and he stares up at the ceiling for a moment before finding you–all clean and dainty in your towel.
“I guess we’re beyond those terms now.” He muses, taking his time to sit up against the headboard.
“I guess so,” you match his tone, turning around to sift through your drawers.
“Y/N,” your finger catches on some fresh panties, “I meant everything I said last night. I…” He seems to be struggling to find the words, and your amusement has you turning to watch him fumble around his emotions.
“I care about you. Like a fucking lot.”
Jungkook would never be one to openly display his embarrassment, and you wish you could see a blush coat his cheeks, but you were never that lucky. Instead, he does this thing where he looks away for a second, as if reassessing what he’s said, only to seem to realize he’s being watched while he does it, and then glance back at you as though it didn’t happen.
It’s cute.
You smile softly, a smile that feels like you’re at the denouement of a movie, when the climax and resolution has already taken center stage and did their time.
You place your underwear back into your drawer, closing it, and then you walk over to Jungkook, and where he’s observing you with this look in his eyes you’ve never seen before.
The sun is slipping in through the blinds, and a sliver of light is catching his orbs, casting them into a molten pool of chocolate honey, and you casually step over his legs, joining him on the bed, sat in his lap.
Instinct has him reaching up to hold your hips, and he regards you with a raised brow, but says nothing more.
Swiftly, your arms wring around his shoulders, and you slip your fingers into his mess of hair. Bringing him in for a kiss. His lips are rough, just as you remember, and he groans when you scrape your nails against his scalp.
And from here, the sun makes its steady ascent, and your towel has found its way somewhere on the floor, his hands mapping your body all the ways you’ve both wanted to for so long now. Your lips are swollen as he pulls away to gently flip you, wanting to worship you beneath him.
And his words, oh his words. Jungkook isn’t a silent lover. When your lips are curved around his cock, he praises you, he makes you feel like a queen, his fingers pulling your hair deliciously. His tongue, when he dips it within you, nose buried against your clit.
You think you’re screaming, but you can’t be too sure because you’re too focused on the way he’s staring at you the whole time, eyes dipped in early morning lust.
When he slides into you, his springy pubic hairs rubbing against yours, he groans heavily into your ear, “you feel so good, baby.”
And you’re so wet that you feel your combined juices dripping from your center with every one of his thrusts, and they get harder, harder, harder—even when you’re thrown into the loop of orgasmic bliss for a second time and he’s still chasing his high.
You let him release into you, his teeth biting deep, deep into the juncture of your neck, as if anchoring himself down so as not to fly into cloud 9, his body falling against yours.
His cock pulsates, riveting his cum against your walls, and you stroke his hair lovingly, pleased to notice he still has that undercut that you grew to adore.
This is your entire Sunday morning, by the way. When dinner rolls around, you can barely move, but Jungkook insists on bringing some leftover pasta to bed, and you enjoy some TV with each other again before fucking one more time. It’s amazing.
When you’d finally settle down for the night, Jungkook has a hand curled around your waist, holding you to him. He’s staring at you. He’s smiling, something so tiny and small, you have to really know him to see it.
“That was wild.” He says, and you start for a moment before laughing tiredly, turning to face him too.
“Let’s be honest, this is exactly what would have happened in that IED pit if we didn’t get out.” He smirks at this, scooting forward to place his chin atop your head.
“You have to work tomorrow. It would be completely unreasonable for me to go to your office and fuck you in the back room. Completely. I’m not even thinking about doing it.”
You slap a hand on his shoulder, forgetting about the bruising until he winces slightly. “Sorry about that… I should check that, to see if the infection’s gone down–”
“Y/N.” He says quietly, somewhat sternly.
“What?”
“Stop. Stop being such a good soldier.”
Stop being a good soldier. Stop doing everything because it is out of sheer obligation to do it. Stop being someone else’s lapdog and obeying every order you’re told. Live for yourself.
You pull away from him, looking into his eyes–the world is shrouded in darkness once again, and you can barely see the gleam of them. These are the things that they are saying. But the way he’s holding you, you can tell that this isn’t an order from Sergeant Jeon, infantry platoon sergeant.
This is Jungkook, who’s been dealt a lot of wrong deals in life and suffered immensely. It’s a request from the man you love. You slink back against his chest, a small smile meeting his collarbones.
“Okay.”
Epilogue
You were cleared for active combat duty two months ago. Since then, you were grilled back into intensive training, happy to find you’ve still got it in you. The Iron Bitch. Or just Y/N. Jungkook, Hoseok, and Taehyung went on leave to recuperate for the allotted period, but Jungkook’s the only one who stayed local the whole time.
You never asked why he didn’t go to visit anyone, and figured he would tell you when it was time to.
The first milestone was convincing him to go on a movie date–now that was memorable.
Hoseok had let it slip that your poor ex-platoon sergeant had called him for insight of what to wear, and the entire time during dinner, he was trying not to curse or act undisciplined. It was very wholesome, but he relaxed when you kissed him and told him he didn’t have to play pretend for you.
But this lifestyle wasn’t for him, and you could see it in his eyes. The way he watched new recruits preparing to ship off for deployments. He could see himself guiding them, leading them, but he never let you read his expressions too deep because he insisted he just wanted to be with you.
So when the time came for the last deployment term for his contract, he was torn. But you weren’t. You knew what it was time to do.
You volunteered for the duty, because combat medics are always in demand, and were cleared by the military psychologist, deemed deployment-ready.
And Jungkook was pissed. But he let you win the argument this time.
The humvee rumbles around you, your helmet bouncing slightly against the seat, and you strain to hear the drivers cracking jokes. Your rifle rests comfortably in your lap as you gaze out at the sun-kissed mountains of sand. A smile is on your lips. You’re not nervous.
“Hey,” Jungkook’s voice cracks into the comms. You turn to face him, and he’s regarding you with a heavy-weighted stare. “Don’t pull that shit you did back when we were under fire that one time.”
It’s a simple warning, but you roll your eyes at him. “You’re not my platoon sergeant anymore.”
He frowns, unamused, and reaches forward to flick your helmet. “I swear to god, Y/N, if we go over an IED again, I’m just gonna leave you there.”
“I don’t believe you,” you grin, grabbing his hand and holding it between you.
When he starts to smile, the sunlight catching his cheeks, the driver telling you to get a room, you look out to the vast land of desert sand, and you find that with one hand on your weapon, and one hand clasping Jungkook’s, this is what you signed up for.
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