#EX Frozen City | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartsbyani · 19 days ago

Text

don't leave me , my love

[ 방찬 ] ✷ ‎. . after a series of terrible arguments, you break up with your boyfriend. life slows down. but then . . ?

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑖dol𝑏f!chris ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. heavy angst , lots of tears , misunderstandings , hurt , lovers to exes to ??? , second chance love , skz ensemble . 12OOOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LiBRARY ⟢ cw. language , injuries , car-accident . ┆ ✉️ ⋮ a req. oneshot .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ hihihihihii finally another channie fic !!!!! the loml. seungchan stans rise !! i loved loved loved writing this. my angst comeback guys (flashback to my early tumblr era where all i posted was angst....) eh. i love angst. so much. woohoo okay bye <3 oh and ty for the req. anon !!! comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading, love <3

the room smelled like rain.

not in the fresh, new-beginnings kind of way, but in the way that clung to damp clothes and old wounds.

it seeped through the cracks of the windowpane, curling around the tension like a silent spectator. outside, the city pulsed—headlights cutting through the mist, distant sirens wailing, the soft patter of rain against the glass an unwanted metronome to the argument unfolding within these four walls.

“you don’t fucking get it,” your boyfriend's voice cut sharp through the quiet, raw and exhausted, an edge to it that he never used on you before. not like this.

his fingers gripped the bridge of his nose, his other hand planted on his hip like he was trying to physically hold himself together. “you don’t—god, y/n, you don’t understand what it’s like to carry this.”

you stood by the doorway, arms crossed so tightly against yourself it almost felt like a shield. the air was thick with it—frustration, exhaustion, love buried under layers of hurt.

you felt it like a weight pressing against your ribs.

how it had started.

the room was dark save for the faint glow of his laptop screen. the hum of the air conditioner filled the space, masking the silence that had grown between you two over the last few days.

you had sat across from him, knees pulled to your chest on the worn-out couch in the room. the atmosphere was suffocating—a mix of tension and exhaustion—and you weren’t sure when the comfort of this small, cramped room had turned into a battlefield.

he was hunched over his desk, headphones perched around his neck, fingers frozen above his keyboard. you could see the subtle tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly despite his usual perfect posture.

chris—was tired. that much was clear. but what stung was how he wouldn’t let you in.

“you’ve been sitting there for hours,” you had said softly, your voice hesitant, almost afraid of breaking the fragile calm that hung between you.

“i’m working,” he replied curtly, not bothering to meet your gaze.

it wasn’t the first time you had this conversation, but tonight it felt different. there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. you could feel the ache in your chest building, a familiar burn of frustration mixed with concern.

“you’ve been working for days,” you shot back, louder this time. “you barely eat, you barely sleep, and—”

“i’m fine,” he interrupted, his tone sharp and clipped, his eyes finally meeting yours. there was something in his gaze—tired, distant, and defensive—that made you hesitate for a moment.

“you’re not fine, chan.”

the words hung in the air like a challenge. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. his laptop screen dimmed, signaling inactivity, and for a second, you thought he might actually listen. but then he turned his chair to face you, and the frustration etched across his face sent a chill down your spine.

“why do you always do this?” he snapped.

your heart sank. “do what?”

“this!” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “this… nagging. you don’t get it, do you? this is my job. this is my life. i can’t just stop because you think i’m overworking myself.”

you blinked, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “i’m not.. nagging, chan. i’m worried about you. there’s a difference.”

“well, it doesn’t feel that way.”

the bitterness in his voice was like a slap to the face. you stared at him, disbelief and hurt warring within you. “do you even hear yourself right now?”

“yeah, i do!” he shot back, his voice rising. “i hear myself every damn day, y/n. and you know what? i’m sick of it. i’m sick of feeling like i have to explain myself to you all the time.”

your hands balled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. the room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his words echoed in your mind.

“explain yourself?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “i’m not asking for an explanation, chan. i’m asking for you to let me in. to let me help you.”

“help me with what?” he spoke, standing abruptly. the chair screeched against the floor, and the sudden movement startled you. “you can’t help me, y/n. no one can. this is my responsibility. my burden. not yours! and i don't need you worrying to add on to that weight!”

“don’t do that,” you shot back, voice steadier than you felt.

“don’t act like i don’t understand you, like i haven’t been here every single fucking night waiting for you to come home, waiting for you to remember i exist outside of your damn laptop and deadlines.” your breath hitched, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to stay level. “i do understand, chris. but you don’t let me in.”

chris let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he turned away, running a hand through his curls in frustration. his fingers were trembling.

you knew he hadn’t eaten properly today. you knew, the small, white snackbox you had packed his favorite rice in, was left untouched. you knew he hadn’t slept much either. but that didn’t change the fact that he was hurting you.

“you want me to let you in? fine.” he turned back to you, eyes dark with exhaustion, jaw tight.

“i have no time. none. i have a fucking comeback to prepare, songs that aren’t finished, choreography that isn’t final, members who rely on me, a company breathing down my neck—” he took a step closer, and even though he wasn’t yelling, his voice was thunder. “i don’t get to sit around and wait for my life to fall into place, y/n. i have to make it happen.”

his words hit like a gut punch. you flinched before you could stop yourself.

something in his expression shifted for half a second—guilt flashing behind the anger—but he didn’t stop. couldn’t stop.

“and what, huh? you want me to pause? to step away? to just—what? go on dates, lay in bed all day with you, pretend that none of this exists?” his voice cracked, his hands clenching into fists. “i can’t, y/n. i can’t afford to be selfish like that.”

you felt something splinter inside of you.

"wow," you whispered, blinking rapidly as you looked at him. "is that what you think this is? me asking you to be... selfish?" your voice was quiet, but it held the weight of everything you’d been holding back. "i have never asked you to choose me over your career, chan. never. but i wanted—no, i needed you to meet me halfway. to at least fucking try. but you didn’t. you never do.”

chan scoffed, rubbing his temple, pacing like he was barely keeping himself together. "you don’t get it, y/n. you never will."

and that—that—was what broke you.

your hands shook. you swallowed the lump in your throat, but your voice still wavered. "you don’t get it, chan. you don’t fucking get what it’s like to love someone who makes you feel like an afterthought. to go to bed alone every single night and wonder if you even cross their mind.” you exhaled shakily.

“i never asked you to give up your dreams for me. i just wanted to be a part of them. but i guess i was asking for too much.”

he let out another bitter laugh, his face twisting. "i make you feel like an afterthought? that’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t have to live under this pressure." his voice rose, sharp and unrelenting.

"you don’t know what it’s like to have the weight of an entire fucking group and a partner on your shoulders. to feel like if you fuck up, you’re dragging everyone down with you." he was breathing heavily, shoulders shaking. “you think i don’t want to be with you? you think i choose this over you? i fucking hate this. i hate feeling like this. but i don’t have a choice.”

there it was. the breaking point.

your lip trembled, and you hated yourself for it. "you do have a choice, chan. you always did." you shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. "you just never chose me."

silence.

a ringing, deafening silence that made the rain outside sound like gunfire.

the crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, but it only fueled your own anger. “oh, and weight? is that what you think i’m trying to do? burden you?”

“that’s not what i meant—”

“then what did you mean?” you interrupted, standing as well. your voice was louder now, shaking but firm. the tension between you crackled like a live wire, and neither of you seemed willing to back down.

“i don’t know!” he shouted, his hands flying to his hair in frustration. “i don’t know, okay? i’m fucking tired, y/n. i’m tired of all of this.”

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest, his words ringing in your ears. he didn’t mean it, you told yourself. he was just frustrated, just exhausted. but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“all of this?” you repeated quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

he froze, his eyes widening slightly as he realized what he had said. “no, i didn’t mean—”

“save it, chan,” you cut him off, your voice cold and flat. “you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

chan stared at you, eyes widening, as if only now realizing how deep the wound he had inflicted was. his lips parted slightly, and for the first time that night, his anger faltered. his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, to fix the damage, to take it all back. but he didn’t move.

you exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look away. "i can’t do this anymore," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. your own words tasted like ash.

chan took a step closer, his voice softer now, desperate. “y/n—”

“i think we should take a break.”

the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and once they were out in the open, there was no taking them back.

chan inhaled sharply, like you had just physically struck him. his face crumpled for the briefest moment before he forced it into something unreadable. he nodded once, barely.

“fine,” he said. but it was not fine. none of this was fine.

you walked past him, your shoulder brushing his for the last time in weeks. and maybe, in some cruel way, you were both waiting—waiting for one of you to stop this, to say something, anything that could undo the damage.

but neither of you did.

and that was how it ended.

or, maybe, how it all began.

you turned away, grabbing your jacket from the couch and heading for the door. your vision blurred with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall. not here. not now.

“thank you,” you stopped in the doorway, your back to him. your voice cracked as you spoke, the weight of the moment threatening to crush you. “really, for everything. i wish you nothing but happiness, christopher.”

the door closed behind you with a soft click, and the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over. the night air was cold against your skin as you stepped outside, but it did little to numb the ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you stood there, staring at the empty street, your mind replaying the argument over and over again. his words, your words, the pain and anger that had filled the room—it was all too much.

and yet, despite everything, you couldn’t stop loving him.

present time : the first snow.

the morning stretched itself thin across the sky, a pale, muted kind of light filtering in through the curtains. it was the kind of cold that bit through the windows, creeping into the cracks of the apartment like it had been waiting for permission to enter. the air felt heavier today, as if winter had fully settled into its place, pressing its weight into the walls, into the silence, into the empty spaces beside you.

you sat by the window, knees drawn up against your chest, your breath fogging up the glass. outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, dancing in the quiet before settling onto the pavement below. the city looked softer like this—less like the endless rush of bodies and neon lights and more like something frozen in time. for a moment, just a moment, it almost felt peaceful.

almost.

but then the memories came creeping in. the way the first snow always meant something to the both of you. how he would drag you outside, laughing, even when you whined about the cold.

"come on, it’s tradition, babe, you can’t just sit inside like an old grandma."

how he’d cup his hands together, carefully forming a snowball, only to grin mischievously before pelting it straight at your shoulder. the way you’d chase after him, slipping and stumbling, both of you breathless from laughter, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

and then—later. after the cold had seeped into your bones, after your fingers were numb from the snow, how you’d both tumble inside, shaking off your coats, limbs tangled together as you curled up by the fireplace.

the heat of the flames casting golden light across his face, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you. how he’d press lazy kisses to your temple, whispering in that quiet, tired voice of his,

you’re warm. stay like this forever.

you blinked. the snow outside blurred for a second before settling again into focus.

it had been weeks.

weeks since that night. weeks since you last heard his voice, felt the rough callouses of his fingertips against yours. the apartment had never been this quiet before. not really. not in a way that stretched into your bones like this.

you exhaled sharply, rubbing at your eyes before pushing yourself up from the chair.

no. stop it. get up.

the cold floor met your feet as you padded toward the bathroom. the water ran hot, steam curling against the mirror as you stepped into the shower, letting it scorch against your skin, washing away whatever remnants of sleep and memories still clung to you.

you let yourself stay there longer than usual, hands braced against the tile, watching the water swirl down the drain.

by the time you stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over, your reflection nothing more than a blur.

you ignored it.

instead, you pulled on a sweater—thick, oversized, soft. paired it with jeans, boots, wrapped a scarf around your neck. routine. just keep moving.

the apartment felt emptier than usual as you moved through it, wiping down counters, straightening pillows, clearing dishes that didn’t even need clearing. you weren’t sure why you were cleaning so meticulously. maybe it was just something to do with your hands, something to keep yourself from thinking too much.

but even then, the silence pressed in. the absence of his voice. the way he used to hum under his breath while scrolling through his phone. the way he’d reach for you absentmindedly, fingers finding yours without even thinking.

you swallowed.

the clock on the wall read 10:42 am.

late. you needed to leave soon.

you grabbed your coat, slipping it over your shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons. your scarf was next, wrapped snugly around your neck, followed by your gloves. you caught your reflection in the mirror near the door and paused.

the sweater you had chosen—it was his.

you thought you had returned all of his belongings that stayed in your apartment.

his sweaters, hoodies, tees, sweats.

maybe this was the unlucky— or lucky one.

a quiet, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

of course it was.

you debated changing it. maybe you should. but then again… maybe it didn’t matter.

the streets were covered in a thin layer of snow as you stepped outside, the air crisp against your skin. your breath curled in white clouds, disappearing into the winter sky. people moved past you—some alone, some hand in hand, their laughter rising into the air. you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets.

the restaurant— your restaurant, the empty place by the busy crossroads you'd bought a few years ago, was a few blocks away. a small, warm place you had always loved—your own little escape from the rest of the world. the bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, warmth wrapping around you instantly.

you forced a small smile at the familiar faces, nodding in greeting.

routine.

just keep moving.

the warm, familiar scent of fresh bread and spices enveloped you as you stepped behind the counter, shrugging off your coat. the restaurant was alive in the way it always was at this time of the day—soft clatters of cutlery against ceramic plates, the low hum of conversation from occupied tables, the occasional burst of laughter from a corner booth.

it smelled like home, like routine, like something steady when everything else felt uncertain.

“morning, boss.”

you glanced up to see mira, one of the servers, leaning against the counter with a knowing smirk. she had been working here almost as long as you could remember, joined a few months after you started the restaurant chain, and she knew you well enough to read your moods before you even said a word.

“you’re late,” she teased, but there was no bite to her words.

“i’m not late,” you said, rolling your eyes as you tied your apron around your waist. “i just… took my time getting here.”

mira gave you a look—one that was far too perceptive for your liking—but didn’t press. instead, she just handed you a notepad. “table five wants a refill on their coffee, and table two asked about the special of the day.”

you took the notepad with a nod. “got it.”

and just like that, the day began.

the hours passed in a blur of movement and familiarity. you lost yourself in the rhythm of it—taking orders, pouring coffee, clearing tables, exchanging pleasantries with customers who had been coming here for years. the work was muscle memory at this point, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

somewhere in the middle of the lunch rush, as you wiped down the counter, jaehyun—one of the chefs, poked his head out from the back. “hey, y/n, you eating today or just running on caffeine and regrets?”

you snorted, shaking your head. “i’ll eat later.”

“you always say that.”

“i mean it this time.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you said that last time too.”

“i—okay, fine.” you held up your hands in surrender. “i’ll grab something when the rush dies down.”

he grumbled something under his breath before disappearing back into the kitchen, and mira smirked from where she was refilling a salt shaker.

“he’s got a point,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “when��s the last time you actually sat down and ate a meal?”

you waved her off, busying yourself with stacking plates. “i eat. at home.”

“uh-huh. sure.”

you didn’t have an answer to that, so you didn’t bother giving one.

the day continued. the restaurant buzzed with life—friends catching up over coffee, families sharing warm meals, couples leaning into each other, their conversations dipping into soft murmurs.

you liked this. you liked watching people exist in these little moments, as if nothing else outside of these walls mattered.

an older woman at table seven caught your eye as you passed by. she smiled kindly. “it’s nice seeing you again, dear.”

you blinked. “oh—thank you. it’s nice seeing you too.”

“you’ve looked a bit tired lately,” she observed, stirring her tea slowly. “make sure you’re taking care of yourself, alright?”

there was something about the way she said it—something warm, something familiar—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

you swallowed. “i will.”

you weren’t sure if that was a lie.

the evening arrived before you realized it, the once-busy restaurant now quiet as the last of the customers trickled out into the cold night. the staff began to clock out one by one, exchanging tired goodbyes as they pulled on their coats.

“you sure you don’t need help closing up?” mira asked, pausing at the door.

you shook your head, forcing a small smile. “i got it.”

she studied you for a moment before sighing. “alright. don’t stay too late.”

“i won’t.”

she gave you one last skeptical look before disappearing into the night, leaving you alone with the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of the wind outside.

you exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

the silence was heavier now.

slowly, methodically, you began the closing routine. you wiped down tables, stacked chairs, swept the floors, turned off the neon ‘open’ sign that flickered against the window. the motions were comforting in a way. predictable.

but when you finally locked the door and turned to face the empty restaurant, something about it felt unbearably lonely.

this place had always been warm, filled with laughter and conversation and life. but right now, standing here alone with nothing but the sound of your own breathing, it felt hollow.

you swallowed, staring at the spot where he used to sit when he came by to wait for you after his own schedule.

the memories came too easily. the way he’d lean back in the chair, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his lips as he watched you work.

you’re cute when you’re focused, he’d say. like, ridiculously cute.

you had always rolled your eyes at that, but—god, what you would give to hear it again.

shaking your head, you grabbed your coat and turned off the last of the lights.

the night was waiting.

and so was the silence.

. . .

the car was absurdly cold when you got in, the leather seats stiff from the winter air. you sighed, rubbing your hands together before gripping the steering wheel, the silence of the empty parking lot pressing against you.

the restaurant behind you was dark now, locked up for the night, its warmth left behind in the echo of distant laughter and clinking glasses.

you stared ahead for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. the exhaustion clung to you, heavy and unmoving, but there was something else beneath it—something quieter. something you didn’t want to name.

with a slow inhale, you turned the key in the ignition. the engine rumbled to life, the soft hum filling the car as headlights illuminated the frost-kissed windshield. you sat there for a beat longer, watching your breath fog up the glass.

then, finally, you pulled out onto the road.

the city stretched out before you, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. the roads weren’t as busy at this hour, but there was still movement—taxis weaving through lanes, pedestrians bundled up in coats, the occasional cyclist braving the cold.

the world kept moving, even when you felt stuck.

your fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel as the radio played low through the speakers. some old song, one you barely recognized. the melody was soft, almost lulling, the kind of tune that made your thoughts wander.

and they did.

“you’re always working.”

his voice was still so clear in your mind. that night, the argument—it played back in fragments, like scenes from a movie you couldn’t turn off.

“and what about you, chan? you act like you’re the only one trying here.”

your grip tightened. the memory of his voice, the sharpness of his words, the way frustration had tangled between you like something inevitable.

“maybe we need a break.”

you blinked hard. the traffic light ahead turned red, and you eased the car to a stop, exhaling as you leaned back against the seat.

the world outside the window blurred slightly, the glow of headlights streaking across the wet pavement. snow had started falling again, light and unhurried, swirling beneath the streetlights.

you used to love this time of year—the first snowfall, the way the city seemed to quiet under its weight.

and him.

you remembered the way he used to pull you into the cold, ignoring your protests as he dragged you into the snow-covered streets, laughter spilling from his lips like warmth against the winter air.

“you’re so dramatic,” you had grumbled, shivering in your coat.

“and you’re no fun,” he had teased, tugging you closer. “come on, just one snowball fight.”

“you say that every year.”

“and every year, darling, you lose.”

the memory made something inside you ache. the way he would wrap you in his arms afterward, pressing his cold nose against your cheek just to make you squirm.

the way you’d sit by the fireplace afterward, tangled together under thick blankets, sharing hot cocoa that he always made too sweet.

it had been easy, then.

before the late nights, before the exhaustion, before the words that had chipped away at what you had built together.

before you started feeling like you were losing him.

the light turned green.

you blinked, shaking your head as if to clear it, and pressed your foot against the gas pedal.

and then—

the world tilted.

a sickening crunch of metal. the sharp, jarring impact of force slamming into you. the violent, uncontrollable spinning.

for a split second, all you saw were headlights—blinding, swallowing everything in white—before everything blurred into chaos.

the sound was deafening. screeching tires, the shriek of twisting steel, car horns blaring, the distant shouts of people. the seatbelt dug into your chest, locking you in place as the car was thrown sideways. your vision swam, dizziness clawing at you, and then—

silence.

everything felt… far away.

the ringing in your ears was the only sound you could process, drowning out the panic outside. your vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening, swallowing up the streetlights, the movement, the shapes of people rushing toward you.

your fingers twitched, barely. your head lolled slightly to the side, and through the cracked windshield, you saw red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

voices.

faint. muffled.

“is she breathing?”

“call an ambulance—”

“stay with me, okay?”

you wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

your eyelids felt heavier now. the weight of exhaustion, of impact, of something you didn’t want to name, pressed down on you, pulling you under.

somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

then—

darkness.

. . .

the world around you existed in fragments.

there was no time, no clear beginning or end—just moments bleeding into each other, slipping between consciousness and the heavy pull of unconsciousness. you weren’t awake, but you weren’t entirely gone either. you were somewhere, floating in the space between pain and oblivion.

the first thing you registered was the weightlessness, the peculiar sensation of being lifted, carried. the cold, biting wind was gone, replaced with the sterile scent of something clinical—alcohol, antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood.

voices. sharp, rushed. urgent.

"bp’s dropping—move!"

"we need to stabilize—"

"get her on the stretcher—"

there were hands on you, pressing against your limbs, holding you still. you wanted to move, to speak, to tell them that you were here, but your body refused to listen. it felt like trying to swim against a current that only dragged you further down.

the pressure of something tightening around your arm. the firm press of fingers against your wrist—checking, counting, assessing. the beeping of machines, rapid and rhythmic, like an anxious heartbeat.

"possible concussion—mild contusions—check for internal bleeding."

the sounds flickered in and out. you slipped again, deeper into the darkness, but not completely.

then—light.

harsh, fluorescent, searing through closed eyelids.

the movement stopped. the sensation of being lifted again, transferred. the scrape of wheels against tile. doors swinging open. more voices.

"pupils reactive—no immediate signs of severe trauma—"

"get an iv started."

the world tilted. the mattress beneath you was firmer than the seat of your car, colder than the pavement. a hand smoothed over your forehead, pushing back strands of hair matted with sweat. the touch was gentle, grounding.

"you're in the hospital," a voice said, distant but soothing. "we’re going to take care of you. just rest."

rest.

the word settled over you like a command, a lullaby. the beeping of the machines steadied. you let yourself be pulled under again.

when you resurfaced, it was slow.

a dull ache pulsed at the edges of your awareness, the type that came in waves—bearable, but constant. your body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something else.

the first thing you saw was the ceiling. white. sterile. unmoving.

then, your own hands—resting limply against stiff sheets, an iv taped to your wrist, an oxygen clip attached to your finger.

a hospital room.

the realization settled into your bones before you fully processed it. the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the faint hum of ventilation, the low murmur of voices outside the door—it was all unfamiliar.

your throat was dry. you swallowed, wincing at the soreness that stretched across your ribs, the dull sting blooming in your arm. not unbearable. but not comfortable either.

there was movement beside you.

a nurse.

she had kind eyes, the kind that made you feel like you weren’t alone in this too-bright, too-quiet place. she glanced at you, a small, reassuring smile appearing as she noticed you were awake.

"welcome back," she said softly, reaching to adjust something on the iv line.

you tried to speak—tried to ask what had happened, how long you had been here—but the moment your lips parted, she shook her head.

"don't strain yourself," she murmured, voice gentle but firm. "the doctor will come by soon, but for now, just rest. talking will only make it worse."

you frowned, but the protest never made it past your lips. even if it had, you doubted it would’ve been much more than a weak rasp.

she adjusted your pillow, moving carefully, as if she knew exactly where you hurt. the iv line shifted slightly, the cool liquid continuing to drip down into your veins, dulling the sharper edges of pain.

"your car got in an accident," the nurse continued, her tone soft, as though the words themselves were delicate. "you’re lucky—it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. some injuries, but nothing that won’t heal."

lucky.

the word felt foreign, distant. you had stopped at the light. you had waited. and yet—

your fingers twitched slightly against the blanket. you tried to piece together what had happened, the moment the world had gone from mundane to chaos, but the memories were scattered. all you could recall were headlights and the sickening weight of impact.

the nurse must have noticed the way your breathing shifted, because she placed a light hand on your arm, grounding.

"you need to rest," she said again, softer this time. "sleep will help."

you wanted to argue. you wanted to ask why this had happened, how long you had been here, if anyone had come to see you. if he—

but your body was already betraying you, exhaustion dragging at your limbs.

the pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough. enough to remind you that you weren’t okay. that you wouldn’t be for a while.

so you let your eyes slip shut.

not because you weren’t afraid of the darkness this time.

but because, for the moment, there was nothing else you could do.

the hospital was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

not the usual city stillness—the kind that came late at night when the streets were empty and only the hum of distant cars remained—but a silence laced with something heavier. something sterile. something fragile.

outside, the world moved on. people walked down busy sidewalks, cars skidded through melting patches of snow, neon signs flickered against the early evening dimness. life carried on, indifferent.

but here, in this fluorescent-lit corridor, the world had paused.

the nurse glanced at the clipboard in her hands, the patient’s name standing stark against the white paper. her brow furrowed slightly before she exhaled, reaching for the phone on the counter.

"are you sure this is the right contact?" the doctor beside her asked, checking the same file.

"it’s listed as her emergency number."

the nurse hesitated for only a moment before pressing the call button.

one ring.

two.

a click.

the voice that answered was slightly out of breath, like they had been running.

"hello?"

"hello, is this..."

. . .

silence. the kind that didn’t come from confusion, but realization.

the kind that carried weight.

and then the line went dead.

the waiting room door pushed open half an hour later.

the person entered in a rush, but not carelessly—like he had run, but forced himself to slow down the second he stepped inside. the nurses at the desk barely had a chance to greet him before he was already speaking, voice tight with urgency.

"i’m here for y/n l/n. i got a call."

one of the nurses, the same one who had called, recognized him immediately. she straightened.

"she's stable. sleeping. but—"

"what happened?" he didn’t mean to interrupt, but the words were out before he could stop them.

the doctor nearby spoke this time, his voice calm.

"a car accident. her injuries are moderate—some bruised ribs, minor fractures. a concussion, but nothing too severe. she was lucky. she'll need rest, but she'll recover."

the weight of those words landed squarely on his chest. he exhaled shakily.

"can i see her?"

the doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse before nodding.

"she's still unconscious.. had woken up for a bit, after we had gotten her here, but then she dozed out again. you can sit with her. just keep your voice down."

a nod. then, without another word, he followed them down the hall.

room 801 was dimly lit, the blinds drawn halfway.

the beeping of the heart monitor was steady, a quiet reassurance that life still lingered in this room, soft and persistent.

and there you were.

lying against the pristine white sheets, head turned slightly to the side, expression peaceful in a way that didn’t match the reality of what had happened.

your arm was bandaged, an iv drip feeding slow, steady doses of pain relief into your veins. a bruise, darkening at the edges, sat on your temple. your breathing was even, but too still. too quiet.

he took a step forward. then another.

until he was at your bedside, standing so close he could see the faint rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitched slightly even in sleep.

he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

and then—finally—he let himself feel it.

the panic. the helplessness. the gut-wrenching thought of what if?

what if the call had been worse? what if it hadn’t come at all? what if this had been it?

his fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm. he inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep it together.

but his eyes were burning.

and before he could stop himself, he was sinking into the chair beside the bed, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. not yet.

"i’m sorry," he whispered, the words breaking in his throat.

you didn’t hear him.

but he said it anyway.

. . .

the room was quiet—too quiet.

a suffocating kind of stillness. the kind that settled in hospitals, lingering in the air like a held breath. it pressed against the walls, snaked into the cracks of the cold linoleum floor, wrapped itself around the sterile scent of antiseptic and faint traces of metal. even the steady beeping of the monitor felt muted, almost like a whisper in the vast emptiness of it all.

and then there was him.

sitting hunched over in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, fingers threaded into his curls as he stared at the floor like it held all the answers he didn’t have.

his breath came shallow, unsteady. his chest felt tight, too tight, like the air wasn’t reaching his lungs no matter how hard he tried. his heartbeat pounded against his ribs, out of sync with the quiet rhythm of the machines.

the sight of you in that hospital bed was something he could barely process.

your face, pale against the stark white pillow. your arm, wrapped in clean bandages. the soft rise and fall of your chest, far too slow for his liking.

it didn’t feel real.

none of this felt real.

he swallowed thickly, but it did nothing to rid the lump in his throat.

he had been fine—or at least, he had convinced himself he was—right up until he saw you lying there, unmoving, their body smaller beneath the weight of the hospital sheets. that was when the panic finally crashed over him, dragging him under like a tide.

the kind of panic that left him hollow. that twisted something deep inside his chest, wringing him dry until all that was left was guilt and fear and—

he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to get a grip.

but the harder he tried, the worse it got.

his shoulders trembled. his fingers dug into his hair. his breath came out in a sharp, shaky exhale. and then—before he could stop it—his first sob broke free.

it tore through him, raw and aching, a sound ripped straight from the deepest part of his soul. his whole body caved under the weight of it, his forehead pressing against the heel of his palm as another sob wracked through his chest.

"shit," he choked out, barely above a whisper.

his hand clenched into a fist, nails pressing into his palm.

he wasn’t supposed to be like this.

he was supposed to be the calm one. the strong one. the one who kept things together even when everything else was falling apart.

but right now?

right now, he felt helpless.

his eyes burned as he lifted his head, gaze falling on you again. he wanted to reach out—wanted to take your hand in his, press his forehead against your knuckles, tell you he was here. that he wasn’t going anywhere. that everything was going to be okay.

but he couldn’t. because.. again,

because what if it wasn’t?

what if this was his fault?

the thought hit him again like a punch to the gut.

what if he had done something differently? what if he had been there? what if you hadn’t been alone?

what if—

"i’m so, so sorry, y/n," he whispered, voice breaking.

it wasn’t enough.

it would never be enough.

but it was all he had.

seconds passed. maybe minutes. he wasn’t sure. time had blurred into nothing but the quiet hum of the machines and the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

he hadn’t moved from his spot.

couldn’t.

his body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and emotions he wasn’t ready to name. his hands were trembling, his fingers flexing and curling against his knees as if trying to ground himself. but nothing worked.

the guilt still clung to him like a second skin.

and the worst part?

you didn’t even know he was here.

didn’t know that he had dropped everything the second he got the call. that he had nearly broken the speed limit trying to get here. that he had spent the last hour sitting by your side, trying and failing to pull himself together.

didn’t know how much he missed you.

how much he needed you.

he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face.

then, hesitantly—almost as if afraid they would disappear if he touched you—he reached out.

his fingers hovered over yours for a second, hesitant, before finally pressing lightly against the back of your hand.

a warmth that was barely there. a quiet reassurance that you were still here. still breathing.

his throat tightened.

"please wake up," he murmured, barely audible.

it wasn’t a demand.

it wasn’t even a request.

it was a plea.

a desperate, aching plea that carried every ounce of guilt and regret and love that he hadn’t been able to say before.

but you didn’t move.

didn’t stir.

didn’t even twitch.

and that—more than anything—was what truly broke him.

the past few weeks : what remains in the silence

the studio lights hummed overhead, casting a dim, sterile glow over the cluttered desk, the scattered sheets of lyrics crumpled in frustration, the empty coffee cups pushed aside and forgotten. the air was thick, weighed down by the scent of exhaustion—of ink and paper, of stale caffeine and sleepless nights.

seated at the console, shoulders hunched, was him, fingers threading through his curls as he stared at the blinking waveform on the screen. the metronome ticked steadily in his ears, a cruel reminder of time passing, of the hours slipping through his fingers like sand.

it was late. too late. but that didn’t matter.

the others had gone home. the studio halls were quiet now, the usual buzz of voices and laughter absent, leaving only the low hum of the equipment and the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the table.

but he couldn’t leave.

not yet.

not when his chest still ached like this.

not when his mind kept playing the same loop of memories, over and over, like a cruel, broken record.

"you don’t get it, do you?"

the words echoed in his head, sharp and raw. your voice—frustrated, hurt—lingered like a ghost, filling every inch of the suffocating silence.

he had said things, too. things he didn’t mean. things he hadn’t even realized were leaving his mouth until it was too late.

and then it had ended.

just like that.

no closure. no finality. just silence.

and god, the silence was worse than anything else.

it was deafening.

it followed him everywhere.

to rehearsals, where his body moved on autopilot, executing every step with precision but feeling none of it. to meetings, where words blurred together and became meaningless noise. to the dorm, where the others cast worried glances his way but didn’t push, because they knew.

they knew he was a storm waiting to happen.

and here, in the studio, where it was just him and the music—his only escape—he found that even that had turned against him.

because every melody he wrote sounded like you.

every lyric that spilled from his pen became a memory. a moment. a fragment of something he had lost.

and he couldn’t do it.

he couldn’t use your voice as his muse.

so he erased them. again and again.

trashed the songs. deleted the files. ripped the pages from his notebook and threw them aside, watching as the words—his words, their words—were reduced to nothing more than discarded, crumpled paper on the floor.

but it didn’t stop.

it didn’t stop the ache.

didn’t stop the way his fingers shook when he reached for another blank sheet, knowing it would end up the same way.

didn’t stop the frustration that built in his chest, hot and suffocating, curling around his ribs like a vice.

"hyung."

the voice was soft, hesitant.

chan barely glanced up, recognizing the figure lingering in the doorway.

minho.

the younger guy leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark with concern.

chan knew that look. knew the way minho studied him, like he was trying to pick apart the pieces of him that had begun to unravel.

"you should go home," minho said after a beat.

chan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. not this again.

"i’m fine."

minho’s eyes narrowed. "no, you’re not."

chan pressed his lips together, turning his gaze back to the screen, hoping minho would take the hint and leave it alone.

but minho never left things alone.

"you look like hell."

"thanks."

"that wasn’t a compliment."

chan sighed, rubbing at his temples. the headache that had been lingering for hours was starting to settle in, a dull, throbbing pulse at the base of his skull.

"i just need to finish this song."

minho’s expression didn’t change. "and then what?"

chan didn’t answer.

because he didn’t know.

didn’t know what came next.

didn’t know how to fix the mess he had made.

didn’t know how to stop feeling like he was drowning in his own emotions.

minho stepped further into the room, his gaze softening. "hyung."

chan swallowed. looked away.

"just let me work." his voice was quieter this time. almost pleading.

minho studied him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.

"fine. but if you pass out from exhaustion, i’m dragging your ass out of here myself."

with that, minho turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

chan sat there, staring at the empty doorway, his hands clenched into fists.

he should go home.

should rest.

should sleep.

but he wouldn’t.

because the moment he closed his eyes, you would be there.

in his memories. in his mind.

and he didn’t know if he could handle that.

present : five days in winter

the hospital was cold.

not the kind of cold that seeped into bones, but the kind that settled somewhere deeper, heavier. a silence that stretched too long, too empty, filled only with the steady beeping of machines and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. the scent of antiseptic lingered, clinical and distant, sterilizing not just the air but the very essence of the place.

chan had learned to hate that smell.

it clung to him now, in his black hoodie, in his hair, in the tired lines beneath his eyes.

five days.

it had been five days since he first walked into this room, five days since he first saw you lying there, still and unmoving, lost somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

and he hadn’t left.

not really.

sure, he went back to the dorm at night, sometimes. sometimes he sat in the studio, headphones on, staring at unfinished tracks that never seemed to progress beyond the first verse. but his mind was always here. with you.

and when he was here, he stayed for hours.

ignoring texts. ignoring calls. ignoring schedules that piled up like a stack of unopened letters.

he didn’t care.

he couldn’t.

because every time he walked into this room, every time he sat beside the bed and saw your still face, it felt like something inside him cracked just a little bit more.

the doctors had reassured him. told him there was nothing to panic over. that you were breathing fine. that your body was simply taking the rest it needed to heal. that waking up was a matter of time.

but what if time took too long?

chan exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. his fingers threaded through his curls, gripping the strands, frustration curling into his shoulders.

"you’re missing out on so much, you know?" his voice was quiet, barely more than a murmur. "the first real snowfall happened yesterday. the big kind. the kind you like."

he swallowed, glancing at your face. no movement. no response.

"some kids were playing in it. there was this little boy outside the café across the street. his mom was trying to get him to go inside, but he just kept throwing snowballs at his sister. reminded me of you."

a bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"you always loved winter, even though you complained about the cold."

silence.

the only response was the quiet beeping of the monitor.

chan sighed, leaning back against the chair, letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling.

it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how time kept moving forward like nothing had happened, how the world outside still spun, still breathed, still continued—while in here, in this small, sterile room, everything felt suspended.

stuck.

frozen.

a soft knock came at the door. chan barely reacted as it opened, the familiar figures slipping inside.

hyunjin and felix.

both looked exhausted in their own way. felix had a bag of snacks in his hands, a feeble attempt at normalcy, and hyunjin’s face was tense, like he had spent too much time trying to convince himself he wasn’t worried.

"hyung," felix spoke first, his voice cautious. "you should go home for a bit."

chan barely glanced at him. "i’m fine."

"you always say that." hyunjin crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "and it’s never true."

felix sighed, walking over and placing the snack bag on the table.

"have you eaten?"

chan shrugged. he didn’t remember.

felix gave him a look before sighing again, softer this time. "she’s going to be okay, you know."

chan exhaled sharply.

"you don’t know that."

hyunjin scoffed. "don’t do.. that. don’t start with the worst-case scenarios. the doctors literally said she just needs time."

"yeah, and how long is that gonna take?" chan’s voice wavered, and he hated how it did. hated how the helplessness crept into his tone despite how hard he tried to shove it down.

hyunjin frowned, his expression softening just slightly.

"she’ll wake up," he said, quieter this time. "she’s strong."

chan swallowed hard. he knew that. knew it better than anyone.

but it didn’t make this any easier.

didn’t make the waiting any less agonizing.

felix sat down on the other side of the bed, glancing at your unconscious form. "she looks peaceful."

chan didn’t answer. he didn’t know if he could agree.

because to him, peace and stillness weren’t the same.

and this—this unbearable stillness—felt more like limbo.

like something unfinished.

like something waiting to break.

and god, he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

the morning air outside the hospital was crisp, the early sun painting soft streaks of gold across the pale blue sky. inside, the hospital remained the same—a quiet combination of beeping monitors, hushed voices, and the sterile scent of disinfectant that had long since embedded itself into chan’s lungs.

he arrived early. earlier than usual.

not that it mattered—his sense of time had warped over the last six days, stretched thin between restless nights and hours spent sitting beside a bed that felt both too still and too fragile.

he pushed the door open slowly, careful not to let the hinges creak too loud, as if any noise might disturb you. but you hadn’t woken up yesterday. or the day before that. or the day before that.

still, chan had hope.

"morning, sleepyhead." his voice was soft, a little hoarse from exhaustion, but there was warmth in it nonetheless.

he shut the door behind him, moving to his usual chair beside the bed. his body moved on autopilot—placing his bag down, pulling out a bottle of water he wouldn’t drink, adjusting the blanket that didn’t need adjusting.

just something to keep his hands busy.

something to stop the weight in his chest from pressing too deep.

"you missed another sunrise," he murmured, fingers ghosting over the back of your hand. "it was a pretty one, too. all pink and orange—one of those skies you’d probably take a million pictures of and never post."

a weak smile tugged at his lips as he exhaled. "i can already hear you scolding me for not taking one for you."

silence.

the beeping of the machines remained steady. the slow, gentle rise and fall of your chest didn’t falter.

chan swallowed.

he shifted, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed. his fingers absentmindedly traced over your knuckles—slow, barely-there movements, as if they might break under the weight of his touch.

"remember that one time we tried making that french hot chocolate you saw a tiktok of, and ended up burning it?" he huffed a soft chuckle. "you were so mad. said i ruined the perfect winter aesthetic. but then you tasted it anyway, and we both agreed it wasn’t that bad. we even made it again, just to prove we could do it properly."

he exhaled through his nose.

"i think about stuff like that a lot."

he swallowed again, throat thick, voice quieter. "i think about you.. a lot."

his fingers curled around yours, gentle, firm. "you’re not allowed to keep me waiting too long, you know. my patience only goes so far."

the day passed like that.

slowly.

like wading through water.

chan sat beside you, talking sometimes, falling into silence at others. occasionally, he’d lean back and let his eyes slip shut, only to jolt them open again minutes later, unwilling to let himself fully drift.

the others didn’t visit today.

he was grateful for that.

he didn’t want to share this space.

not today.

not when he felt so—raw.

evening settled before he realized it. the room darkened except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. outside, the city continued—cars honking, streetlights flickering on, the world moving forward as if nothing had changed.

chan hadn’t moved much.

still in the same chair.

still holding your hand.

his thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin.

the exhaustion was catching up to him again.

he fought it.

tried to ignore the heaviness in his limbs.

tried to push past the way his blinks grew slower, the way his head tilted slightly forward.

but eventually, he gave in.

just for a second.

just long enough for his body to sag, for his grip on your hand to loosen slightly, for the warmth of your skin against his to lull him into something shallow, something that wasn’t quite sleep but wasn’t entirely wakefulness either.

minutes passed.

then—

a twitch.

a faint pressure.

the smallest tug against his hand.

his eyes snapped open instantly, breath catching in his throat.

he jolted upright, gaze flickering down to your fingers—his heart hammering against his ribs.

had he imagined it?

had his mind finally started playing tricks on him?

no.

because there it was again.

a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of your fingers against his.

his breath shuddered.

"hey—" he whispered, eyes wide, gripping your hand a little tighter. "hey, love, can you—?"

the door creaked open before he could finish.

the nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand, but the second she saw the look on his face—saw the way his hands trembled slightly as he held yours—her expression shifted.

"what’s wrong?"

chan exhaled, barely able to find the words. "she—she moved."

the nurse’s eyes widened before she swiftly turned back toward the hall.

"doctor!"

chan barely registered the next few moments.

footsteps.

voices.

the doctor entering, the nurse moving to check the monitors, the air shifting into something more urgent—but not panicked. not alarming. just… observant.

"vitals are stable," one of them murmured.

"it’s a good sign," another reassured.

chan sat there, unmoving, barely breathing as he watched them work—checking, adjusting, monitoring.

. . .

darkness.

it is soft, quiet, weightless. a vast ocean with no shore in sight, where time does not exist, where thought drifts like mist, thin and shapeless. you are floating, untethered, caught in the liminal space between nowhere and somewhere. there is no urgency, no need to wake, no pressing demand. just the silence. just the stillness.

then—something shifts.

a sound.

faint. a murmur against the quiet.

it trickles in like light through the cracks of a door, hesitant yet persistent. a voice. low, gentle, carrying the weight of something you cannot yet name.

you want to reach for it.

but your body is heavy, limbs sinking, lungs thick with something dense and unmovable. the darkness doesn’t want to let you go. it tugs at you, pleading, desperate to keep you here, to keep you safe, to keep you—

another voice.

closer this time.

then—a touch.

warm, real.

a thumb brushing over your knuckles, a soft squeeze, something grounding in the haze.

the weight in your chest shifts. not gone, but different. a tether, a pull toward the surface. the nothingness that held you so gently begins to peel away, unraveling thread by thread, revealing something beyond the void.

your fingers twitch.

there is a sharp inhale—someone else’s, not yours.

the silence ripples.

then— light.

blinding, even through the barrier of your closed eyelids. it seeps in like an intrusion, pushing back against the murk of unconsciousness.

your head throbs. your throat is dry. your skin feels strange, as if it doesn’t belong to you.

then, after what feels like forever—

you open your eyes.

at first, there is nothing but a blur. a smear of color, shifting shapes, movement too fast for your sluggish mind to process. you blink, once, twice, and the world slowly begins to sharpen.

white walls. fluorescent lighting. the steady beeping of machines.

a hospital.

the realization comes sluggishly, like trying to recall the details of a dream upon waking. you start to remember how you got here. you remember why.

but then—

"y/n?"

a voice.

your gaze flickers to the source, slow and unsteady, as if your body is learning how to exist all over again.

chan.

he is beside you, close, his body half-perched on the chair, half-leaning toward you like he doesn’t trust the space between. his hands are on yours—solid, warm, trembling.

his eyes, wide with something that looks like relief and devastation twisted into one, are locked onto your face as if looking away might shatter you back into nothingness.

your throat is raw when you try to speak.

nothing comes out.

chan moves instantly, reaching for the cup on the bedside table. you watch, dazed, as he adjusts the straw, his movements quick but careful, and then he’s guiding it to your lips.

"here. just a sip."

you take it.

the water is cool, soothing against your throat, but your body feels unfamiliar, unsteady, as if you are a guest in your own skin. you pull away after only a small sip, and he sets the cup back down.

his hand returns to yours.

like it never left.

there is a moment of silence.

then, softly—

"you scared me."

his voice cracks. just slightly. barely noticeable, but you hear it. feel it.

the weight of it settles in your chest.

you swallow. try again.

"how long?"

the sound of your own voice surprises you. it is hoarse, fragile, barely more than a whisper.

chan exhales, running a hand through his curls. he looks exhausted, like sleep has been a stranger to him for far too long.

"six days."

you blink.

your mind tries to grasp the number, the weight of it, but everything feels slow, like you are running through molasses.

"i was… asleep?"

"more like unconscious," he corrects, his thumb brushing absently against your knuckles. "the doctors said it wasn’t too dangerous, but—"

he stops. shakes his head.

"it felt dangerous to me."

your chest tightens.

his fingers curl around yours, firmer now, as if testing to make sure you are real.

"you wouldn’t wake up," he murmurs, voice quieter now. "no matter how much i talked to you, no matter how much i—" he exhales, shaking his head. "i thought—"

he stops himself.

his jaw clenches.

you squeeze his hand.

his gaze snaps to yours immediately, like the smallest movement from you is something monumental.

you clear your throat, trying to fight past the dryness, past the exhaustion clinging to your bones. "i’m here."

it’s not much.

but it is enough.

chan swallows hard, his lips pressing together, and for the first time, you see it. the glassiness in his eyes, the way his breath shudders, the way relief sits so heavy on his shoulders it almost looks like it might break him.

"yeah," he exhales. "yeah, you are."

the tension in the room softens. the air shifts.

you watch as he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the lightest kiss against the back of it.

his eyes shut for a moment, like he is trying to ground himself in the sensation.

when he opens them again, there is something softer there.

"don’t scare me like that again, yeah?"

his voice is steady, but you can hear the emotion beneath it.

you give the faintest nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"i’ll try."

it’s the best you can offer.

and for now—

it is enough.

the moment chan’s hand was gently pried away from yours, a chill settled over your skin, one that had nothing to do with the temperature of the hospital room. his warmth had been the only thing tethering you to something familiar, something steady. but now—now it was gone.

"mr. bahng, we need you to wait outside while we check on her," one of the nurses had told him. a request, but also not.

you had seen the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance, the way his fingers had twitched as if they didn't want to let go. but he listened. because it was for you. because it was what was needed.

now, the door clicked shut behind him, and the room felt bigger. louder, with the beeping of the monitors, the shuffle of nurses moving around you, the crinkle of gloves being pulled on.

“alright, sweetheart, we’re just going to do a quick check-up, alright?” the nurse closest to you—an older woman with kind eyes and soft hands—offered you a reassuring smile as she reached for your wrist, checking your pulse. “you’ve been through quite a bit, so let us know if anything feels off.”

you swallowed, throat still dry, but nodded.

the world still felt slow, like you were wading through water. the dull ache in your limbs, the stiffness of your joints—it was a strange thing, waking up in a body that had been still for so long.

someone else adjusted the iv drip beside you, and you felt the cool trickle of medicine entering your veins.

“you were lucky, you know.” the nurse’s voice was light, almost teasing. “your injuries could have been a lot worse.”

your injuries.

the words settled over you like a distant echo. you had almost forgotten.

“what.. what else happened?” your voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something fragile.

the nurses exchanged a glance. then, the older woman—the one who had spoken first—tilted her head slightly. “do you remember anything?”

your brows furrowed, but you managed a light nod.

the memory was there, hazy and fractured, like a dream slipping through your fingers the harder you tried to hold onto it.

the road.

the red light.

the blur of headlights.

the sound—

your stomach twisted.

“i—” you swallowed hard. “a car accident.”

the nurse nodded. “yes. you were brought in unconscious. you woke up for a few minutes, you remember any of that? some injuries—nothing too major, but enough to keep you out for a few days.”

a few days.

that still didn’t feel real.

you exhaled shakily, trying to absorb the information, but your mind felt slow, reluctant to process everything all at once.

the nurse squeezed your hand gently. “you’re going to be okay, sweetheart. you just need some time to heal.”

there was a soft rustling as another nurse adjusted the pillows behind you, shifting your body slightly so you were more upright. the change in position sent a wave of dizziness through you, but you didn’t protest.

a few more checks—light in your eyes, testing reflexes, changing out bandages. you winced when they cleaned one of the scrapes along your arm, but the nurse was quick to murmur a gentle, “i know, sweetheart, almost done.”

then, just as she was finishing up, her voice took on a different note.

“your boyfriend, by the way,” she said casually, as if the words weren’t about to send your heart into a spiral, “has been coming in every day since we called him.”

you froze.

the nurse didn’t seem to notice. she kept adjusting the blankets around you, her tone light. “your emergency contact, right? he looked ready to drop everything the second we rang him.”

your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say.

boyfriend?

boyfriend.

your thoughts fumbled over the word.

the nurse chuckled softly. “oh, don’t look so surprised, sweetheart. it was obvious. the way he was hovering over you, holding your hand like he was afraid to let go? if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”

your heart did something strange in your chest. a slow, twisting motion that left warmth blooming in its wake.

“he’s been here every single day,” she continued. “for hours. sometimes the whole day. we had to practically force him to go home and rest.”

your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

“he talks to you, too,” she added with a small smile. “like you could hear him. maybe you could, who knows?”

you swallowed, trying to ignore the way your throat suddenly felt tight.

“he would just sit here, holding your hand, telling you about his day. about how the weather was. about how your friends were worried about you.”

the warmth in your chest grew.

“he even told you stories,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “little things. things that probably wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but he told you anyway. like you were just asleep and he was waiting for you to wake up and respond.”

something swelled in your throat.

you hadn’t been aware.

you had been floating in that quiet, in that darkness, not knowing that he had been right there.

“i think,” the nurse said after a pause, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips, “he really, really cares about you.”

your breath hitched.

the words settled deep into your bones, warming the spaces you hadn’t realized were cold.

chan had been here. everyday.

talking to you.

waiting for you.

your fingers brushed over the blanket absently, heart thrumming in your chest.

the nurse gave your hand a final squeeze before stepping back, gathering the used bandages and tools into a tray. “alright, sweetheart, we’re done here for now.”

another nurse adjusted your iv, and the beeping of the monitor remained steady, rhythmic, like a quiet reassurance.

“we’ll let your boyfriend back in now,” the older nurse teased lightly. “poor thing’s probably pacing a hole into the floor out there.”

you huffed a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly.

and then, the door opened.

and chan stepped in.

the door clicked shut behind him, but you barely noticed.

he stood just a few steps inside the hospital room, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, eyes searching yours like he needed proof—proof that you were really awake, that you were really, fully, looking at him.

you blinked at him, your throat tight, your fingers curling against the thin hospital blanket.

there was something about him. something different.

the exhaustion was written all over his face—his skin paler than usual, dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, his shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t belong to him. his curls were disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through them too many times.

but it wasn’t just the fatigue. it was something deeper. a hesitation in the way he stood, a carefulness in his every breath, like he was afraid to move too quickly, afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you.

afraid you’d send him away.

a lump formed in your throat.

“you stayed,” you whispered.

his breath trembled as he exhaled, and then—then he was moving.

not rushing, not lunging, but stepping forward, crossing the space between you with a quiet desperation.

the chair beside your bed scraped slightly against the floor as he sank into it. his hands, shaking just barely, hovered over yours before he swallowed and finally—finally—took your fingers in his.

a choked, breathy laugh left him, something wet and exhausted and disbelieving all at once.

“of course i stayed,” he murmured.

you let out a shaky exhale, glancing down at his hands. he was warm, solid, real.

but then, something flickered over his face. his brows pulled together, his jaw tightening.

“i—” he sucked in a breath, struggling for words, his grip on your fingers tightening just slightly.

you knew that look.

he was overthinking.

regret, guilt, pain—all of it flickered in the depths of his tired brown eyes.

“i—” he tried again, then exhaled sharply. “i’m so, fucking sorry.”

your lips parted.

“for everything,” he continued, voice thick. “for the argument, for—” his voice cracked. “for not talking to you. for letting my frustration—” he broke off again, shaking his head, his fingers tightening around yours. “i should have—should have been better.”

you swallowed.

your vision blurred, the weight of everything pressing into you.

you had both been hurting. both been so lost in your own emotions, in your own pain, that you had pushed each other away.

and now—now he was here. holding your hands like they were something precious, like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“chris,” you whispered, shaking your head, your own fingers tightening around his.

his gaze snapped up to yours, as if the sound of his name was something he had been waiting to hear.

you swallowed, blinking through the blur of your tears.

“i’m sorry, too,” you murmured.

his lips parted, something raw and vulnerable flashing across his face.

“i—” your breath hitched. “i shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me either.” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “i should have—should have listened more, should have—” your voice cracked. “i missed you.”

a sharp breath left him.

“you don't need to apologise. it's none of your fault, all mine, love. i missed you too,” he whispered.

and then—then he was leaning forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

you closed your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—the faint traces of cologne, the warmth of something undeniably him.

his breath trembled against your skin.

“i thought—” his voice was barely above a whisper. “i thought i lost you.”

your heart clenched.

you shifted slightly, letting go of one of his hands so you could cup his face instead. your thumb brushed over his cheek, over the warmth of his skin.

his breath hitched, and then—then his own hand covered yours, holding it against his face, as if grounding himself in the feeling of you.

you swallowed, blinking rapidly against the tears in your eyes.

“i love you,” you whispered.

his breath stuttered.

then, before you could even fully process it, his arms were wrapping around you, pulling you into him, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you buried your face into his shoulder, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his hoodie, the warmth of him settling deep into your bones.

neither of you spoke for a moment.

just breathing. just existing.

just feeling the weight of everything that had been broken and the quiet, fragile way it was coming back together.

then—his voice.

soft. shaky.

“thank you for forgiving me.”

you swallowed.

his fingers curled around the back of your hospital gown, his forehead pressing against the side of your head.

“i’ll make up for it every day,” he murmured.

your breath hitched.

you pulled back just slightly, just enough to see his face, and then—then you cupped his cheeks again, tilting his head down slightly as you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.

he let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut, hands still clutching at you.

your thumb brushed over his cheek again.

“just stay,” you whispered.

his lips parted.

then, slowly, he nodded.

and as he pulled you back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, to the crown of your head—

you knew.

you knew that, no matter how broken things had felt, no matter how lost you had both been—

you had found your way back to each other.

and that—

that was enough.

“i love you so, so, much more, sunshine.”

now playing . . . don't leave me, my love by colde

please don't leave my side, i hate nights without you.your heart cannot be changed. what am I going to do again now?

제발, 내 곁에서 떠나가지 말아요, 그대 없는 밤은 너무 싫어. 돌이킬 수 없는 그대 마음. 이제 와서 다시 어쩌려나?

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan

730 notes · View notes

hanniebaeee · 2 months ago

Text

All I want for Christmas

Chris Bang x fem!reader

Warnings: some tears and making out

Genre: almost exes to lovers, angst, fluff

Summary: You and Chris are on the verge of a break up, but then, it's Christmas. And there's some magic in the air.

a/n: Merry Christmas everyone 💕 Love you all, and I can't thank you guys enough for all the love and support. Lots of love and wishes for the New year from me✨

The freezing December air bit at your cheeks as you stepped onto the rooftop of your apartment building. One of your neighbors, Jimin, handed you a cup of mulled wine, and you accepted with a smile. Your fingers wrapped tightly around the mug tightly, your eyes taking in the sight around you.

The party was in full swing - warm fairy lights strung across the rooftop, some of older women decorating gingerbread men. A beautiful Christmas tree gleamed in the center, but none of it reached you.

Your eyes darted around the crowd, searching for just one face.

Chris.

Your chest ached at the thought of him. It had been weeks since you last spoke. Since that disastrous fight. You'd both said things you didn't mean. It was just a poor way of shielding your own hearts from being hurt.

You loved him. God, you loved him. But sometimes love wasn’t enough. Or maybe…it was just too much.

You sighed and sipped your drink, leaning against the railing, letting the city lights blur your thoughts. And then, you felt it before you saw him. That quiet pull.

There he was.

Chris stood at the far end of the rooftop, near the makeshift stage, surrounded by kids.

He looked good. Too good. In that beautiful grey coat and pants, and that crisp white shirt that you loved so much on him. But his eyes - they were rimmed with dark circles, hollow in a way that absolutely shattered your heart.

You turned away, your breath hitching. How was it possible to miss him this much, when he's standing right there in front of you?

“Alright, alright, gather ‘round!” someone announced, pulling your attention to the stage.

The kids had taken seats on the front row, giggling with excitement. And then, Chris stepped forward to the mic, with a guitar in hand. And his eyes met yours, and your heart stopped.

“Settle down, settle down,” he told the kids, with a gentle smile on his face, his voice a little rough around the edges.

And then his eyes met yours once again, as he started to sing.

Silent night, holy night…

The world faded. His voice was like warm honey, dripping with emotion, so achingly tender, like he was pouring every ounce of himself into the song. You stood frozen, his voice wrapping around your chest, squeezing tight until tears pricked your eyes.

Towards the end of the song, you couldn’t take it anymore. Blinking rapidly, you slipped away, setting your mug down on a nearby table and heading for the stairwell.

You didn’t make it far.

Sinking onto the cold steps, you buried your head in your hands, shoulders trembling as sobs wracked your body.

“Y/N.”

The voice was breathless, and you looked up to see him standing there, his chest rising and falling like he’d run after you. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his eyes, wide, desperate.

“Chris, I…”

He didn’t let you finish. He sat on the step near you, his hands cupping your face as he leaned in close, his forehead brushing yours.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I can’t be without you. I know I screwed up, I know things are messy, but…please. Don’t let this be the end. I need you, baby.”

You swallowed hard, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Chris, it’s not that simple. We keep hurting each other.”

“I’ll fix it,” he said, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “Whatever it takes. I’ll fix it, because I love you more than anything. Please, just…don’t give up on us. Don't give up on me…”

The vulnerability in his voice shattered the last of your resolve. You surged forward, your lips crashing into his in a kiss, so desperate but sweet.

He groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you into his lap as you straddled him on the narrow staircase.

The stairwell was quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint hum of music drifting down from the rooftop. Chris’s hands roamed your back, pulling you as close as he could. Your lips moved together in a rhythm that was both frantic and tender, years of love and pent-up longing pouring into every kiss.

“God, I missed you,” Chris whispered against your mouth, his soft wet lips so warm. His thumbs brushed along your jawline. “Missed this. Missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you admitted, your hands threading into his soft curls. “So much.”

His lips found yours again, hungrier this time, and you melted into him, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his shirt. He shifted slightly, leaning back against the wall and pulling you further into his lap. And the heat radiating from his body was enough to make your head spin.

“Chris…” you murmured, breaking the kiss just enough to look at him. His eyes held a tenderness that made your chest tighten.

“I love you, baby,” he said and tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from sadness.

You pressed your lips to his and he hummed softly, his hands sliding down to your hips, and sliding under the hem of your sweater. His touch was warm, sending shivers down your spine.

His lips slipped down your neck, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Chris, anyone can just walk by,” you managed to say, your voice tinged with both amusement and desire.

“And?” he teased, smiling as he nipped lightly at your collarbone.

You let out a laugh that quickly turned into a sigh as his hands slid higher under your sweater, his thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs. His kisses grew rougher, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you squirm.

“Okay,” you said breathlessly. “But if Mrs. Park from 3B catches us, I’m blaming you.”

Chris chuckled, his grin boyish and utterly irresistible.

“Fair. But I think she’d just tell us to get married already.” he said, and you stilled, searching his eyes. There was no teasing in his gaze now, just pure love.

“Too soon?” he asked softly.

“No,” you whispered, leaning into his touch. “Not at all.”

With a radiant smile, he kissed you again, slow and deep.

“Come back to me,” he whispered against your lips. “Move back in with me. Let’s fix this. Together.”

Your heart swelled, and you nodded, tears spilling over.

“Okay, Channie. Let’s try again.”

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere

Dividers: @strangergraphics

#stray kids #skz #bang chan x reader #bang chan angst #bang chan fluff #bang chan x y/n #bang chan x you #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz angst #stray kids angst

429 notes · View notes

kjupchurch-xx · 7 months ago

Text

Conflicting Feelings

Author's Note: Let me start this by saying I mean absolutely zero disrespect to Hugh's ex wife with this story. I'm just coming up with ideas for chapters and trying to be creative, so please do not hate me for the story. I got this inspiration from a song I'd been listening to, so once again, no disrespect meant for his previous marriage or his ex-wife. This story is pure fiction and just meant to satisfy your need for Hugh Jackman fluff.

Hugh and I have been friends for many years, despite our age gap of 20+ years. He was married to Debbora Furness and had been for the past 27 years. Our friendship was a platonic one, but we'd always had this strange chemistry. Hugh has been extremely loyal to Deb over the course of their marriage, despite his flirtatious nature. I'd love to tell you that I didn't have a thing for him, but I'd be lying to you. With that being said, I respect his marriage and I know my boundaries, which I'd never cross.

I was sitting in my hotel room in California, it was coming up on 7pm, the sun starting to slowly sink down producing a beautiful cotton candy sky that could be seen from my suite's balcony that overlooked the city. I was getting ready for a date with a musician, who shall remain unnamed. I heard my phone ring from across the room, walking over and picking it up, expecting it to be my date, I noticed it was Hugh.

"Hey Hugh, I can't-" I began but was immediately cut off by him sounding frantic, "I really need you right now." He said with a shaky, almost hoarse voice.

My voice grew concerned, "Is everything okay?"

"Just send me your room number and the name of the hotel. We'll talk there." He said quickly before hanging up.

What in the actual hell is going on? Did someone die? Is it cancer? I mean what is going on? A thousand thoughts raced through my mind as I quickly typed out my suite number and hotel into a text and sent it to him. Within minutes I heard a knock on my suite door. I ran up, opening the door to see a disheveled looking Hugh Jackman looking frantic. I quickly pulled him inside my room and he pulled me into a hug. I stood before him frozen in place, slowly wrapping my arms around him.

"What's going on? Are you okay? Are Oscar and Ava okay? Is Deb-" I began to hit him with rapid fire questions trying to understand what's causing this kind of emotion from the man I'd known to always be so happy, go lucky. He cut me off, "She's gone. Deb's gone." He said, his voice trembling.

I gasped in shock as my eyes widened, "What? What happened?" I asked, rubbing his back, leading him to the tan leather love seat that sat in the living room area of the suite. I'd never seen him this emotional outside of his acting.

As we sat on the sofa, he continued holding me as if I were his security blanket. I repeated, "What happened?" causing him to look up at me with broken eyes.

He covered his face, "She told me she wanted a divorce. She's moving her stuff out of the house and wants to be gone before I get back." I bit my bottom lip in disbelief, "Did she say why?" I asked trying to process what I was being told.

He took a shaky breath before looking at me, "She says we've fallen out of love and are two different people now that 27 years have gone by. She says we want two entirely different things out of life."

I shrugged, placing my hand on his knee. "Is she wrong?" I asked softly, looking at him, continuing to tremble with each word he spoke.

He sighed, running his hand through his messy hair, "She's not wrong."

I blinked, looking at him, taken back by his response, "What do you mean she's not wrong? What did you do?"

He took a deep breath and began looking down, refusing to look me in the eyes and began shaking his head. I grabbed his hand, caressing it softly, "What happened, babe? You know I won't judge you. You know after years of confiding in me that you can tell me anything."

He nodded, wiping a tear from his eyes, still shaking his head as if he were trying to process his own thoughts. He was being extremely cautious with his words. The sound of my phone ringing caused me to almost jump out of my skin. It had to be the guy I was supposed to be meeting tonight. I quickly grabbed my phone, silencing the call and put my attention back on the man that was sitting in front of me.

He finally looked up at me, "Being married for as long as we were is hard work after awhile, especially when your world stops due to a pandemic and you're forced to actually face the problems in your marriage instead of being away for weeks or months at a time and being able to avoid them." I nodded, allowing him to continue, watching nervously grit his teeth, "I fucked up. I let my emotions get the best of me and instead of envisioning her, I began envisioning someone else. I knew it was wrong, so I stopped and began focusing all of my attention on Deb."

I looked at him, "Okay, well I mean...That happens. You didn't physically do anything, did you?" I asked, furrowing my brows.

He shook his head, "No, I didn't. But she knew something was up with me. And now, I can't keep running from it. Deb is a great person, she truly is. But this other person, it's like whenever I'm with them, life suddenly just...makes sense again." He said lowly while staring off into space as if actually saying the words caused him too much pain to admit.

My phone began ringing again, I quickly grabbed it and answered, "Hey, look I'm sorry. I just had an emergency come up and I'm not going to be able to make it. I hope you understand." I said quickly, Hugh gave me a questioning look, and I knew he was curious as to who I was speaking to or who I had plans with.

My date was disappointed to say the least, but he understood, so I took that as a chance to end the call. Hugh looked at me, "I shouldn't be here bothering you with this. Go on with your plans." He sniffled, wiping his face with his head and standing up.

I grabbed his hand, rolling my eyes, pulling him back down on the sofa, "No, it's okay. So things make more sense when you're with this person?" I asked, he looked at me nodding, but not speaking. "Does she feel the same way?" I asked.

He shrugged, refusing to keep eye contact with me again, "I don't know if she does or doesn't. But I've been in a marriage that's lacked intimacy and has been more of a friendship arrangement for the past two years. This was not something I planned. I would never cheat on Deb, I just couldn't handle the charade anymore and I'm guessing she felt the same way."

I wasn't exactly sure what to say anymore as I gazed at him allowing him to continue venting, "I just know that whenever I'm with this person, we can be in a room full of people and it's like they're not there. She makes me feel things that I haven't felt in the longest fucking time."

I threw my hands up, "Go tell her then. If that's how you feel for this person, go talk to her. Hugh, you are an amazing man. What happened is unfortunate but people grow apart sometimes and there's nothing that can be done about it. You need to go tell this person how you feel." I said softly, giving him a small smile. "So who is it anyways? Is it the girl you're on broad way with? The one the rumor was about? Wasn't her name Sarah or something?"

"Are you referring to Sutton?" He asked, looking at his hands.

I nodded, "Yeah, that's her name. Sutton. Is it her?"

He sat silent for a good two minutes, staring at his hands. There had been articles going around for months about him and his Music Man co-star, Sutton Foster having an affair. I honestly wouldn't be surprised at this point. I knew the effect the pandemic had on his marriage. He tells me literally everything and I've always been there as an ear or eyes for his texts regarding the issues he and Deb dealt with.

After two minutes of complete silence, he spoke, looking at me, "I have something to tell you."

I looked up at him with soft eyes, his hazel ones piercing through my soul, "It's Sutton, isn't it?" I asked knowingly.

He slowly shook his head, "It's not Sutton and no, I didn't have an affair with Sutton." He simply said.

I chuckled, "Okay, so who is it? It's not Zendaya, is it?" I asked, cringing at the thought of he and Zendaya together. Nothing against Zen, we're friends. But she also knows about the crush I have on my dear friend.

He looked at cringing himself, "What? No. She's like a daughter to me." He said with a chuckle, "It's you." He said lowly.

I took a deep breath, "It's me?"

He looked down at the floor again, "Yeah." He was being short, as if he himself were in disbelief.

I furrowed my brows, "Why?" I asked, shaking my head in disbelief of what I was hearing.

His voice began trembling again as he reached for my hand, interlocking it with his own, "Do you remember when my father died?" He asked, I nodded, "I rang you, and you jumped on a plane to come see me. You spent days going over my lines for The Son with me. That was when I realized it. I rang Deb first. All she could say was that she was sorry. But you, you booked a flight and flew across the world for me. I was in hysterics and you comforted me each time." I took another breath, remembering what had taken place when Hugh's dad passed away on Australia's Father's Day in 2021.

"I swear to you, I tried. When I got back home, I tried to make those thoughts go away. That's why I distanced myself from you that following year. No matter what I did, no matter what she did, all I could see was you." He spoke honestly, tilting his head slightly, a hitch in his breathing as he continued to look at me, begging me to say anything.

"I fell in love with you, but I didn't want you to know. I didn't want Deb to know. I didn't want anyone to know, so I tried my fucking bloody damnest to push it out of my head and it only made it more apparent. And I don't know if you feel the same w-" I couldn't take hearing him speak anymore, overwhelmed with emotion, I tightened the grip he had on my hand with my own and sent my lips crashing against his stopping him in his tracks.

He brought his other hand up, grabbing my chin softly as his brain registered what was happening and began slowly moving his lips against mine. Pulling away, but pressing my forehead against his, as we both kept our eyes shut, I spoke, "I love you." barely above a whisper. I slowly opened my eyes to see his eyes staring into my own, our foreheads still pressed together, "But I didn't want this to happen like this."

I sighed, pulling away, "I don't want to be the reason your marriage ends. I'm not a home wrecker. I've loved you for years, why do you think I flew across the country when your father died and you called me hysterical? But I respect you, I respect Deb and I respect your marriage."

He looked at me, "My marriage ended two years ago. You're not a homewrecker and you did not cause this. Deb and I knew this was coming since the shut down over COVID. We didn't want to divorce for the sake of our children. We've just both gotten to the point where we want different things out of life and have decided for the sake of our happiness to end things. I'm heartbroken because I genuinely do love her as a person, and I did not want things to go the way they have. But her and I have to find our own happiness and we've realized it wasn't with each other anymore."

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, "It's you. For the last two years, it's been you and you didn't even know it. You did nothing wrong, love."

I sat in silence. I'd worked so hard over the years to keep my feelings to myself and to never cross a boundary. But whenever he called me in tears over his father, I couldn't help myself but to want to be there for support. He needed it and was falling apart at the seams. I don't know why Deb didn't rush to his side. I don't know why all she could say was "Sorry, I'll see you when you get back to New York.".

His eyes began pleading with me, as he slid off the sofa and onto the floor on his knees in front of me, still holding my hand, now grabbing my other one, "Please say something. Please."

I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, exhaling the deep breath I had been holding, "Just hold me..." was all I could manage to say.

He nodded, quickly sliding back to his position on the sofa, pulling my body into his chest, "Yeah?...I can do that." The feeling of his arms tightening around me as I sank my head into his chest.

Where do we go from here?

721 notes · View notes

goodoldfashionedengineer · 1 year ago

Text

I think it is extremely funny how New Jersey, the state Gotham is located in, is the only state where it's illegal to pump your own gas.

Apparently it's "Because of the fire hazards directly associated with dispensing fuel[...]"

Any Gothamite would be shaking their head at this.

They are used to attacks on Gotham by rogues on a daily basis. Just living in that city puts them at risk for dying in a gruesome way. Fear toxin, Joker Gas, getting frozen in ice, you name it.

But they aren't trusted to pump their own gas?

And the poor gas station attendants.

I bet they judge the supervillains based on how they treat service workers.

You stand at the gas station and Red Hood rolls up?

Yeah, they know him. He's nice. Yeah, they know how he opperates, so what? He bitched with Freya about her ex when they'd just broken up. He gave Alex a good tip when he'd mentioned how he had to work on his birthday.

#batman #dc #dc comics #dcu #batman comics #gotham #gotham city #only in gotham #dc headcanon #batman headcanon #red hood #jason todd

2K notes · View notes

satellite-evans · 26 days ago

Text

right where you left me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x ex girlfriend!reader

Summary: You're still where Max left you.

Word count: 2.8k+

Warnings: angst, based on the Taylor Swift song

A/N:

Hi everyone, this is the first fic that I’m posting for the folkmore series, I am so excited!!! Can’t wait to hear what you guys think <3

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The restaurant still smells the same. The warm scent of buttered bread, the faint tang of expensive wine in the air, the subtle undertone of aged wood and candle wax melting into soft pools of gold. It’s been months—years, maybe—since the night Max walked out, yet the place feels untouched, frozen in time. Just like you.

You sit at the same table, your fingers brushing against the linen napkin, tracing invisible patterns on the surface. The same table where his laughter once curled in the air, where his hands would have reached for yours without thinking. Your glass of water remains half-full, just as it was that night. Untouched. Forgotten. A relic of a moment that still lingers in the corners of your mind like an echo you can’t quite silence.

The candlelight flickers, its glow catching the delicate ring you still wear on your right hand—the one he gave you as a promise before he decided promises were too heavy to keep. You twist it absentmindedly, the metal cool against your skin, a contrast to the warmth of memory.

Outside, the city hums with life. Cars glide past, their headlights flashing like distant stars. The murmur of strangers, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—all of it moves forward, untethered to the past. But here, at this table, in this restaurant where time seems to hold its breath, you sit in the hollow space he left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, you wonder if he ever comes here, too. If he ever stops just outside the door, hand hesitating on the handle, breathing in the familiar scent and remembering. Or if, like the promises he made, he’s let it all go.

“Are you ready to order?”

The waiter’s voice pulls you from your trance, gently but firmly, like a hand on your shoulder bringing you back to the present. You blink, your gaze shifting from the flickering candlelight to the young man standing beside your table, his notepad poised, his expression polite but unreadable.

You only shake your head, offering a tight smile. “Not yet,” you murmur, though you already know the answer.

He doesn’t question it. He never does. Maybe by now, he recognizes you—not just as another customer, but as a fixture of this place. The girl who always sits alone. The girl who never changes her order. The girl who lingers too long over a half-full glass of water, as if she’s waiting for it to fill itself. The girl who still waits for someone who isn’t coming back.

Does he wonder? Does he piece together the story in his mind, constructing quiet theories about why you return to the same spot, why your fingers still play absentmindedly with a ring that should’ve lost its meaning by now? Is he used to people like you—the ones who haunt old memories like ghosts who refuse to be laid to rest?

Or does he just think that you’re a girl frozen in time, that time went on for everyone else but that you wouldn’t know?

A girl that just can’t move on.

He nods, stepping away without another word, leaving you alone once more. Alone with the past. Alone with the quiet hum of the restaurant around you, the soft clatter of silverware, the muted conversations that blur together into white noise.

You exhale, glancing toward the empty chair across from you. It remains untouched, just as it was that night. Just as it has been every night since.

You wonder if Max ever thinks about this place. If he ever remembers the way your fingers used to trace lazy patterns over his knuckles while he rambled about race strategy, his voice animated, his eyes alight with passion. If he recalls how you’d bite your lip to keep from laughing when he confidently—yet disastrously—mispronounced the names of the wines on the menu, only to scowl at you in mock offense when you corrected him. If he ever sits in a quiet moment, caught off guard by a passing scent or a familiar song playing in the background, and suddenly, inexplicably, thinks of you.

If he feels even the slightest pang of nostalgia when he hears your name.

If he even knows that you come to this restaurant, even though you felt the most heart crushing pain here.

That he left you no choice but to stay here forever.

Or if he’s forgotten all of it. All of you.

You hadn’t meant to check, but old habits die hard. One second, your mind was wandering, and the next, your fingers were already scrolling, moving with a muscle memory you wished you didn’t have. Before your brain could stop them. Before your heart could brace itself.

And suddenly, there it was, a picture trending on Twitter.

Max Verstappen & Kelly Piquet expecting their first child together!

The words seem to blur for a moment, your vision tunneling, breath catching somewhere in your throat. And then, below the headline, a photo.

You wanted to say that it was irony or even faith that you found out that he was expecting a baby with another woman in the same restaurant where he would whispered sweet words about how he wanted to be father to your children so badly, but you don’t believe in faith anymore. This restaurant was just destined to haunt you forever.

At least he looks happy.

Happier than you remember. Happier than he ever was with you.

Your grip tightens on your phone, but your body remains still, frozen in place. The sounds of the restaurant fade into static, the clinking glasses and quiet laughter around you suddenly feeling like background noise to a scene you no longer belong in.

You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together as you force yourself to look away from the screen, as if that might erase the image from your mind. As if that might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

The ring on your finger feels heavier. It presses into your skin like an anchor, pulling you back to a past you can’t escape, a past you’re still tethered to. You blink rapidly at the screen, hoping, praying, that the words will change. That maybe this is some cruel joke, some mistake, but they don’t. The image doesn’t blur. It’s real. It’s him.

Another picture.

Christmas. They’re spending it together.

A perfect family. The kind you used to imagine when you’d sit together, planning for the future, talking about how one day, maybe, you’d have a house full of children and laughter.

The cruelest part is how ordinary it all looks. A picture-perfect moment, the kind you once dreamed of having with him, now shared with someone else. A life you are no longer a part of.

It’s funny, really. How time moves forward for everyone but you. How the world shifts, the seasons change, new memories replace the old ones. Love finds new homes. But you? You’re still here, frozen in place, gathering dust like an abandoned photograph tucked away in a forgotten drawer, one that’s too painful to even look at anymore.

You can’t help yourself but eread the headline over and over again and look at the pictures of them spending Christmas together, as if the repetition might somehow make it easier to swallow. Your heart clenches, a familiar ache spreading through your chest. The kind of ache that never really goes away. The kind of ache that lingers, festers, and refuses to fade no matter how much time passes.

You want to scream, to throw your phone across the room, to erase the image, the words, the entire situation from existence. But you don’t. You sit still, paralyzed, watching the truth unfold in front of you, as if you’re witnessing something that’s no longer your story but someone else’s.

And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.

You think about the night he told you. The memory lingers, every detail sharp as if it just happened yesterday. The dim candlelight flickered between you, casting warm, uneven shadows on the table, making his eyes look darker than usual. Your hair was pinned up, just the way he liked it, because all you wanted was to be enough for him, to be loved and cherished by him just the way you loved him. You remember the way he fidgeted with the water glass in his hands, the way his fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calmness his voice tried to convey. He didn’t even drink from it, just held it there like it was something to anchor him. And you? You could feel it before he even spoke. The knot in your stomach, tight and twisting, the way your heart seemed to freeze in place, like it already knew what was coming before your brain would allow it to acknowledge the truth.

"I met someone."

The words barely make sense. They hang in the air between you, impossible to grasp. For a moment, it feels like the world tilts on its axis, like reality itself has cracked and this is some sort of cruel dream you’ll wake up from.

You almost laugh, bitter and disbelieving, because it doesn’t sound real. It doesn’t sound like Max. Not the Max who once whispered forever into your hair, promising you a future where nothing could tear you apart. Not the Max who swore he couldn’t imagine a life without you, who said your names together like they belonged in the same sentence, forever linked. But the words still come, and somehow, despite everything, they are his.

The restaurant around you starts to fade away, the sounds dulling to a distant hum, muffled like you’re underwater, as if the world is pulling away from you, inch by inch. Your heart races, but your body feels oddly disconnected from it all, like you're watching someone else’s life unfold before you, helpless to stop it. You take a shallow breath, but it doesn’t reach the depths of your chest, and the weight of the moment settles in there like a stone you can’t dislodge.

"What?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, a fragile whisper, so quiet that for a second you think he won’t even hear you. But he does.

His gaze drops to the table, his eyes avoiding yours, as if he can’t bear to see you crumble, as if he’s already sorry for what he knows he’s about to do. His voice is quieter now, almost too soft to catch. "I didn’t mean for it to happen."

You shake your head, disbelief clouding your thoughts. Your hands curl into fists in your lap, nails digging painfully into your palms, trying to hold on to something, anything. The ring on your finger suddenly feels like it’s choking the life out of you. "But it did."

The words escape from your throat like shards of glass, sharp and cold, biting as they land between you. He swallows hard, and you wonder if he’s doing it to hold back tears, or if it’s just the weight of what he’s about to say.

“She has a daughter,” he adds, his voice thick, but the words hit you like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. You feel your mascara run as your eyes sting with the hot, unfamiliar ache of betrayal. But you don’t wipe the tears away. You don’t move. You just sit there, paralyzed, staring at him, waiting for him to say something—anything—that could take it all back. That could prove this isn’t real. That could remind you of the love you thought was enough.

“She’s not mine,” he continues, his voice wavering, like he’s trying to make it sound better, like he’s trying to convince you this is somehow okay. “But I love her like she is.”

The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. A sudden, cold numbness spreads across your chest, a pain that feels both sharp and hollow. The space between you and him stretches, filling with the things he can’t say.

“And her mother?” You force the words out, each one heavier than the last.

His silence is loud enough to drown out everything else—the clinking of silverware, the murmur of conversations from nearby tables, the soft jazz music playing in the background. Everything around you fades into the background until all that’s left is him and you, caught in the unbearable weight of what he won’t say.

When he finally speaks again, his voice barely rises above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the truth. “I love her too.”

And just like that, it’s over. The last thread of hope you had been clinging to snaps, leaving you floating in a place where nothing makes sense anymore. The ring on your finger burns, searing into your skin, but you don’t take it off. Not yet. You can’t. Because somehow, it’s the only thing left of him, of the person you thought you knew, of the future that is no longer yours.

You know where he is now. He’s winning. He’s thriving. The world sees him on podiums, champagne in hand, his new life already unfolding in the bright lights. He’s standing beside someone else now, someone who doesn’t carry the weight of the past, someone who fills the space you left behind with ease. The world loves him, adores him. And you? You’re still at the restaurant, in the ruins of what he left behind, trapped in a love story that never got its happy ending, a story that no longer belongs to you.

You press your phone to your chest, as if it could somehow stop the ache from spreading. As if holding onto the past will make the present hurt less. But it doesn’t. The weight of the truth is suffocating, a heavy fog that settles over your heart, and you realize, with painful clarity, that you were never meant to be a part of his forever. You were never meant to last.

The whispers around you grow louder, piercing through the fog of your thoughts, and it doesn’t take much to understand why. You hear his name before you see him, and when you finally do, it feels like the ground beneath you tilts ever so slightly.

Max.

He looks different—sharper, somehow. More defined, more polished by the world that shaped him after you. His eyes sweep over the restaurant, and you wonder if they’ll stop on you, if he’ll look at you and see something from the past, something worth acknowledging. But no.

He’s here’s. At the restaurant. With her.

He really brought her here.

Kelly is beside him, her laughter effortless, untouched by the weight of history, the burden of old wounds. She leans into him, her hand resting gently on her stomach, a soft smile playing on her lips as she looks up at him with the kind of love you used to think was meant for you. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sit in this seat, to watch someone walk away, to feel the years stretch endlessly before you as you wonder if they ever think about you.

Max’s gaze flicks across the room, and for just a split second, it lands on you. It’s so brief that you almost convince yourself it didn’t happen. But it did. His steps falter for a fraction of a second, his fingers tightening around Kelly’s hand before he looks away, as if something inside him is trying to hold onto a memory that’s already slipping through his fingers.

And that’s it. No smile. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just a glance, a flash of something unspoken, and then—nothing.

You knew that he didn’t care about you but, facing with that reality hurt you more than you thought. Here you were, coming to the same place a man hurt you because you loved him so much, only for the same man to come too because he didn’t love you at all.

What a shame.

Maybe it is true. Maybe you really are unawarely frozen in time. Maybe that would explain why you still feel the same pain now as on the day he left you.

You swallow hard, blinking away the burning in your eyes. The candle on the table flickers, casting long shadows that seem to stretch endlessly across the walls. The world outside moves forward, time marching on relentlessly, but you remain frozen in place, clutching onto the past like it’s the only thing that hasn’t slipped away.

The moment passes, and Max moves on, just like he always does.

But you? You’re still right where he left you.

390 notes · View notes

space-cowgirllll · 5 months ago

Text

Die With A Smile

Outbreak Day with ex-girlfriend Abby?

a/n: idk what lady gaga and bruno put in this song fr. I should have been studying for an Ochem exam but here we are lol.

"Government officials met today to discuss the recent spikes in hospitalizations all across the globe over the past week, with talks of setting up government run quarantine zones in all major cities."

You perk up from your spot on the couch, trading the carton of ice cream in your hands for the TV remote. The local newswoman's voice fills the quiet space as the volume increases. You immediately recognize the hospital in the background.

"Hospital staff everywhere are overwhelmed with the influx of patients coming in with symptoms of this mysterious virus. For the time being it is highly recommended that any travel plans be postponed. International flights have started being cancelled, leaving hundred of people stranded. The CDC advises everyone to remain calm and continue to follow your city's imposed emergency curfews as they work towards finding the cause."

The face-mask you'd slathered on earlier hardens as she lists off the symptoms to look out for: sudden mood changes, muscle spasms, and slurred speech. You can't wrap your mind around a simple virus causing all this. Your stomach sinks in realization, this is definitely more serious than anybody was letting on.

Without even thinking you reach for your phone, quickly scrolling through your contact list until you land on the one person you've been avoiding. Abby, your ex girlfriend of six months. Your finger hovers over her number, wondering if this was worth breaking three months of no contact when loud screams come from the television. You look up just in time to see the blast of an explosion before the screen goes blank. Static stares back you.

Your finger mashes down on the touchscreen with zero hesitation as you run to the sink, hands desperately scrubbing at your face while you wait for her to answer. You don't even stop to consider you might be blocked.

Please pick up, please pick up, please.

"Hello?" Abby's panicked voice sounds through the phone.

"Oh my god Abs. Are you okay?" You ramble. "I just saw the news and I- there was an explosion."

"I had to home to change. " Her voice is shaky, turn signal clicks faintly in the background. "I was still close enough to- OH MY GOD!" The sound of tires screeching drown out Abby's curses. A loud boom sounds off outside, this one feels closer. "I'm....to...you" Is the last thing you hear before the line goes dead.

You throw the phone across the room, a string of curses leaving your mouth. The open window of your living room lets you hear the chaos outside before you can see it. Helicopters fly overhead and sirens sound off in the near distance. One by one, porch lights come on as your neighbors step out of their homes, confusion etched on their faces.

The sound of a door slamming open catches everyone's attention. Out of the corner of your eye you see the outlines of two people moving towards the road. Your neighbor, Claire, yells as her husband chases after her. His movements far too quick and erratic for someone his age.

Everyone watches in shock as he catches up to her, mouth attacking the side of her neck, effectively silencing her screams. The sight is gory. You stand frozen as some of the braver ones try to help, only to be met with a similar fate before he runs off into the middle of the road, searching for his next victim. Chaos quickly ensues, people run off back to their homes, garages pop open as some try to make a quick escape. You stagger back, knocking into the side table beside the couch. A picture frame falls over, shattering loudly on wood floor.

To your absolute horror, his head snaps to your window. For the first time, you're able to catch a glimpse of him up close. Gone was the sweet old man who would help you with yard work in those first few months after Abby moved out. The skin of his face is molted, almost as if something was eating away at it. Once sparkling blue eyes are completely glazed over. The bloodthirsty look on his face sends you reeling.

His mouth parts open letting out a loud screech, ready to lunge through the thin window screen when a familiar black truck slams into him. Abby hops out, mouth moving quickly as she shouts something at you. Between the ringing in your ears and the loud screams outside you don't register what she says. Your eyes blink rapidly, hoping the sight of your elderly neighbor under her front tire is just your imagination. In your peripheral you see the front door swing open, Abby's keychain hanging from the lock.

Strong hands grip you by the shoulders, shaking you out of your stupor. "Baby what are you doing? We have to go!"

Her woodsy scent envelopes you as she scoops you up and carries you out bridal style before tossing you in the passenger seat. Fingers clench into the leather as the truck reverses, disturbing the once perfect lawn. Your flowerbeds and mailbox becoming casualties in the process too.

You peel your eyes off the dash, looking out the window as she flies through residential neighborhoods. More and more people are starting to trickle out from the safety of their homes. Some running with only the clothes on their backs, others quickly shoving personal belongings in their vehicles.

Your voice is shaky when you finally speak up. "What's going on Abigail?"

She exhales heavily, looking exhausted. "I don't know."

"Are they all like that?"

Her jaw clenches. "The ones I've been treating are in the early stages of their symptoms, but beds are full. We've been told to turn people away to recover at home." She huffs. "I don't even wanna know how many of them are out there running around like that."

You hesitantly rub her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, slowly pulling back when she tenses. Her throat clears and the skin of her knuckles turns white as she tightens her grip on the wheel.

"So what are we doing?"

You're shocked when she shrugs her shoulders. Abby always had a plan. You wrack your brain, trying to think of something.

"My parent's cabin up north! We could go there." You suggest. "Y'know until everything settles down."

She makes a sharp right, following the signs pointing her to the nearest on ramp. Her fist slams against the wheel when you pull up to the main highway just five minutes later. It seems like everyone had the same idea. Cars are honking, people are screaming. Nobody is moving. The thought of sitting in bumper to bumper traffic right now doesn't sound like a smart idea.

"My apartment's in the city." Abby suddenly states. "They were setting up barricades when I left for work this morning. Flyers talking about a quarantine zone."

She doesn't wait for your approval, sending the truck speeding towards her place. The closer you get to the city, the more erratic Abby's driving becomes. It's clear your little suburban bubble was late to the news of the outbreak. Downtown Seattle is absolute madness. Everywhere you look there's something happening. Those infected chase people up and down the streets, tackling the ones too slow to outrun them. Shops that you can remember being there your whole life are now ablaze.

You grip onto the handle above your head watching wide eyed as Abby plows through debris in the street. Bile rises in your throat when you realize she most likely driving over the dead bodies left behind.

The truck slows to a crawl. Concrete barricades were placed closer together here, making it impossible to get through. She silently curses at the fact that you're gonna have to leave the safety of the car and make the rest of the journey on foot. She grabs your face between her hand, forcing you to look her in the eye.

"Get ready to run baby."

Your hand is on the handle when something crashes into your door. A scream gets caught in your throat as the infected bangs on the glass of your window before setting it's sights on the blonde. She's halfway out of the truck when she gets tackled to the ground. Her hands shoot out using all her strength to keep it from attacking her

"Abby!"

She screams at you to run. Her arms are getting tired of holding this ridiculously strong freak back. Her hold is quickly slipping. Accepting her fate she screws her eyes shut bracing for the inevitable. A loud whack and she doesn't realize there's no longer any weight holding her down until your panicked voice is in her ear.

"Holy fuck! Are you okay?"

You crouch beside her, a bloody metal pipe in your hands. Keeping a watchful eye on the body laying just inches from hers. She slaps your hand away, wincing when she gets up on her own.

"Why would you do that?!" She whisper yells, unsure whether to kiss you for saving her or punching you for putting yourself in danger. "I told you to run!"

"I could never just leave you like that. You're welcome." You say through labored breaths. With a roll of her eyes she grabs your hand, sprinting in the direction of her building.

You're thankful it's a short run from the car to her place. The two of you able to successfully hide from any other infected. It doesn't take long for either of you to realize that their vision sucks.

The stairs up to her place are a feat of its own. You huff and puff up to the nineteenth floor, legs on fire when you finally walk through the door.

Her apartment is spotless, because of course it is. Floor to ceiling windows give you a clear view of what seems to be the end of the world.

"Oh my god." You stand in the middle of her room, watching in horror as explosions go off in my the distance. The ground beneath you shakes as they get closer and closer.

Abby shakes her head in disbelief clearly putting two and two together.

"It's so heavily populated here. They don't see the point in trying to separate the healthy from the infected." She whispers. Tears well in her eyes watching a plane purposefully fly into the ground off in the distance. The large blast setting fire to everything around it. There are more right behind it. "We're so fucked."

You watch as the fight leave her body. Your throat locks up, unable to scream at her. Wobbly legs pace back and forth in the small space trying to think of something that might work. Deep down you know it's pointless. There's no way you'd make it out of the city alive. Soft sobs wrack your body at the realization that this really is the end.

Her shoulders slump as she sits on the bed. She gnaws on her lower lip to keep from crying too loud. "Can I hold you?"

You nod, legs feeling like jelly. Abby reaches for you, pulling you up towards the headboard. The two of you lay beside each other breathing heavily with your hands intertwined. Tears stream down her face and onto the pillow under her head.

She reaches over and kisses you, her shaking hand plays with the baby hairs on the nape of your neck. "My biggest regret was letting you go."

You watch face as she continues talking, lips moving against yours. "I had to stop myself from driving past the house every single day." She laughs. "Would have sat outside your door until you took me back."

"I wish you would have." You admit through a watery smile.

"I never stopped loving you. I just want you to know that." She whispers, lips moving to kiss your temple.

"I should have never left." Your lips meet the skin of neck tasting the salty tears that have pooled there. "I love you too Abby. So much it hurts."

"I can't believe this is what it took for us to realize how stupid we were." She mumbles into your hair. Your face burrows into the crook of her neck. "I'm so sorry baby."

"I'm glad you came for me." You tell her, but you know she doesn't hear it.

The walls start shaking, sending everything tumbling to the floor. You're no longer able to hear anything over the sound of a loud engine approaching. Her arms tighten around you, the two of you curl into each other.

There's a jarring beeping in your ear just as it all goes black.

You shoot up in bed, heart in your throat. The sound of your heavy breathing almost drowns out the harsh beeping of your alarm. Reaching over you rip the cord from the wall sitting in silence for a moment while your heartbeat returns to normal.

The sun is shining outside, laughter from the kids across the street flows in through the small opening of your window. A lawnmower goes off in the distance.

Shaking hands fist the cool cotton of your sheets. The soft material grounding you. You look around the small room. Everything looks just as you left it. There's an empty bottle of wine on the dresser and you roll your eyes at yourself.

That explains it.

You're okay.

It was all a dream.

You jump out of bed, rushing to the bathroom before taking the stairs two at a time almost snapping an ankle. The entryway table shakes when you snatch the keys from on top of it. The warm August breeze that hits you when you walk outside makes you feel renewed.

The quiet neighborhood looks as it always does. A couple of people are out watering their lawns while some head out for church. Claire sits on her front porch drinking a cup of coffee, giving you a little wave when she spots you pulling out of your driveway and it's a miracle you don't burst into tears. Using muscle memory you quickly punch in the number you know by heart, waiting with bated breath for an answer. "Hello?"Your shoulders drop in relief at the sound of her voice. She's okay.

"Where are you?"

"At home," she pauses "why?"

"Perfect." You hang up before she can reply. Tossing the phone on the passenger seat you press your foot down on the gas.

You make it to Abby's apartment building in record time, parking haphazardly by the curb. There's a ninety nine percent chance you'll come back to a parking ticket stuck to your windshield but you don't care.

There's a moment on the elevator ride up to the nineteenth floor where you second guess yourself. Aware of how ridiculous you look in mix matched pajamas going to try and win your ex girlfriend back. You steel your nerves reminding yourself of how horrible those last few seconds of your nightmare were. If she kicks you out you can at least say you tried.

Abby answers the door looking mouth watering in a black tank top and gray shorts, her messy hair pulled back in a low bun. "Alright, how many traffic laws did you break on your way over here?"

"You don't wanna know." You pant, throwing yourself into her arms.

She catches you with a soft grunt, hesitating for a second before wrapping her arms around you. The familiar scent of pine engulfs you.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you, but what are you doing here?" Her teasing tone makes your face heat up. "I don't think random house visits on a Sunday at 8 AM fall under no contact." She quips.

"I love you!" The words are out before you can stop yourself. "I love you and I don't want to go another day without letting you know that walking away from you was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I regret it every single day."

Abby leans back against the door with her hands still on your hips. There's a tiny grin on her face watching you spill your guts, you’re too worked up to notice. "I know we're both at the peak of our careers. I know we're busy, and there will be days we don't even get to see each other, but I'm tired of living like this. I miss you."

You sniffle pathetically into her chest. "The world could end tomorrow and I don't want to regret never telling you how I felt." Thumbs wipe gently at your tears. "And if you don't feel the same way I underst- mmph!"

Her lips meet yours in a soft kiss, hands wandering under your shirt to caress the soft skin of your back. Neither of you make a move to deepen it, content to take it slow.

Abby pulls back first. Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she stares down at you. It suddenly hits you how much you've missed her. She brings her forehead to rest against yours.

"Took you long enough baby."

#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson angst #abby anderson x female reader #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x you

518 notes · View notes

meadowfics · 2 months ago

Text

lost island, found love

hwang jun-ho x female!reader

warnings: descriptions of death, guns, angst, i added reader's background that was not in this request but I felt like it could bring jun-ho and reader together! i am not responsible for the content you choose to read.

word count: 4013

you stand in the dimly lit room, the stench of blood and decay thick in the air. the body of the salesman lies slumped against the wall, lifeless, his once smug face frozen in a grimace. your fingers tremble slightly as you lower your gun, the weight of everything crashing down on you.

mr. kim is gone, killed by this salesman who now lies dead in front of you.

gi-hun’s frantic voice echoes in your memory…his desperation when he begged you to find answers, to bring justice in order to get money. now, with the salesman gone, the trail feels cold.

you don’t want to be here. not anymore. not with everything else hanging over your head like a storm cloud. hana is missing. your little sister, your only family left in the world. you’ve scoured every corner of the city, turned over every rock, but nothing. no sign of her. she wouldn’t just disappear. not her. not without a word.

“we don’t have time for this,” a voice cuts through your thoughts, sharp and impatient.

you glance over your shoulder, your eyes meeting the man who’s been reluctantly dragged into this mess with you..jun-ho. a police officer, driven, stubborn, and entirely too by-the-book for your taste.

he leans against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

“gi-hun’s been taken to the island,” he continues, his tone clipped.

“those people with the masks, they don’t wait around. if we don’t move fast, we’ll lose the trail.”

you grit your teeth, your mind warring between two equally impossible choices. find the island where gi-hun is being held, or keep searching for hana. it feels cruel, having to pick one over the other.

“you think i don’t know that?” you snap, your voice harsher than you intended.

jun-ho doesn’t flinch. he crosses his arms, his gaze steady and unyielding.

“then let’s go. unless you’ve got another plan?”

you hate him a little in that moment. his calmness. his ability to compartmentalize. you can’t do that. not when every step you take feels like a betrayal of your sister. you know he’s right. if you don’t act now, gi-hun’s fate is sealed.

“fine,” you mutter, shoving past him.

“but don’t get in my way.”

he follows without a word, and for a while, the only sounds are your footsteps echoing through the empty streets. the weight of your gun presses against your hip, a constant reminder of what this life has turned you into.

jun-ho finally breaks the silence.

“why’d you take this job?”

the question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t answer.

“because someone had to,” you say finally, your voice low.

“gi-hun deserved that much after everything he’s been through.”

jun-ho nods, but you can feel his eyes on you, studying, prying. you don’t offer more. not about mr. kim. not about hana. not about the hollow ache in your chest that refuses to go away.

the journey ahead feels impossibly long, but you push forward, each step heavier than the last. you don’t know if you’ll ever find the answers you’re looking for.. about gi-hun, about hana, about yourself. but for now, all you can do is keep moving.

the next morning.. you’re in the small boat with a bunch of your ex-special forces mates.. gently rocking on the light waves, the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull doing little to calm the storm in your mind.

there is a map spread out on the bench in front of you that feels more like a cruel joke than a guide. you’ve traced every possible route, every last scrap of information gi-hun left behind, but it’s like the island doesn’t exist.

even though jun-ho insists that the island is a real place, and that he has been there too.

“anything?” jun-ho’s voice breaks through the silence, rough from hours of tension. he’s standing at the bow, one hand resting on the edge, the other gripping his radio.

you don’t answer immediately, your eyes scanning the coordinates again, hoping something will click. the frustration is mounting. you’re used to solving problems quickly, decisively. in the special forces, there was no room for hesitation or failure.

now, every passing hour feels like a countdown to losing gi-hun forever.

“no,” you finally mutter, shoving the map aside.

“it’s like they’ve erased the damn place off the face of the earth.”

jun-ho exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. he’s trying to keep it together, but you can see the cracks forming. five days. that’s all the time you have before the trail goes completely cold, and neither of you can afford to waste another second.

“we’re missing something,” he says, turning to face you.

“they wouldn’t go through all this trouble just to make the island impossible to find. there has to be a way in. some clue we’re overlooking.”

you lean back against the bench, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. your mind races through everything you’ve learned so far, piecing together fragments of intel like a puzzle.

“it’s not just about the location,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

“they’ve got to have a system. patterns. supply routes. something that gives them away.”

jun-ho nods, stepping closer.

“you think we’re being followed?”

you glance up at him, narrowing your eyes. the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now, but it makes sense. an operation this big wouldn’t just let two random people snooping around go unnoticed.

“probably,” you admit.

“which means we’re running out of time faster than we thought.”

he frowns, his jaw tightening.

“great. so, we’re sitting ducks out here.”

you pull your handgun from its holster, checking the magazine out of habit.

“not exactly. i’m not going down without a fight.”

jun-ho smirks faintly, though the tension never leaves his eyes.

“you really are a piece of work, you know that?”

“and you’re irritating,” you shoot back, sliding the gun back into place.

“guess we make a great team.”

hours later.. the sun dips lower into the horizon, casting long shadows across the boat’s deck. the waves lap gently against the sides of the boat, though it does little to calm your racing thoughts.

you glance over at jun-ho, standing near the bow with his hands gripping the edge. the man’s posture is tense, his shoulders squared as if bracing against some invisible weight.

he hasn’t said much in hours, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes flick toward the horizon and back, as though searching for something..or avoiding something.

breaking the silence, you clear your throat.

“you said you’ve been on this island before,” you start, your voice low but firm.

“what did you find? if you don’t mind me asking.”

jun-ho doesn’t turn to face you. his knuckles whiten against the edge of the boat, and his jaw tightens. the way his body stiffens tells you more than his silence does. he’s holding something back.

“it’s... complicated,” he says after a long pause, his voice tight.

you frown, stepping closer.

“complicated how?”

he finally turns his head, his dark eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment before looking away.

“it’s not something i like talking about.”

jun ho’s answer frustrates you, but you bite back the sharp retort sitting on the tip of your tongue. you don’t have time for vague responses, not when every passing hour feels like another nail in the coffin for gi-hun..or worse, for hana who you could be looking for instead.

“look,” you say, trying to keep your tone measured, “if we’re going to do this together, i need to know what we’re up against. whatever you saw, whatever you know, it could be the difference between us finding gi-hun or walking into a trap.”

the police officer’s gaze drops to the deck, and for a moment, he says nothing. the sound of the waves fills the void, each crash amplifying the weight of his silence.

“i saw the frontman,” he says finally, his voice barely audible.

“wha- huh? the frontman?” you repeat, confused.

he nods, his eyes still fixed on the deck.

“he’s the one running the show, the man in charge of the island…i never got a good look at him. he always wore a mask but he nearly killed me.”

the tension in your chest tightens like a coil. this new piece of information does little to ease your anxiety. did gi-hun know about this?

“that’s it?” you press, your frustration bleeding into your voice.

“you didn’t see anything else?”

jun-ho hesitates, his jaw clenching as if debating whether or not to say more.

“no,” he says after a moment, but the hesitation in his tone sets off alarms in your head.

“what aren’t you telling me?” you ask, stepping closer, your eyes narrowing.

“nothing,” he snaps, a little too quickly.

you don’t believe him, but you let it go for now. pushing him won’t get you the answers you need, and you can feel your own nerves fraying with every passing second.

your thoughts drift, unbidden, to hana. the anxiety creeps in like a shadow, wrapping around your chest and squeezing until it’s hard to breathe.

where is she? is she safe? the thought of her being hurt..or worse..makes your stomach churn.

jun-ho’s voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts.

“what’s your other problem?” he asks, his tone softer now, almost hesitant.

“you mentioned it before, but you didn’t tell me what it was.”

you hesitate, your fingers twitching at your sides. you’ve kept this to yourself for days, carrying the weight of it alone because you didn’t think anyone else would understand. but now, standing here with jun-ho, you feel the tiniest crack in your resolve.

“it’s my sister,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

jun-ho’s brow furrows, concern flashing in his eyes.

“your sister?”

you nod, swallowing hard.

“her name’s hana. she went missing a few days ago. no note, no sign of where she might’ve gone. we don’t have money and our parents died a few years ago, so it’s not like she could’ve just left on her own. she wouldn’t do that. she wouldn’t just disappear.”

jun ho’s expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face… his hands clench at his sides, he looks as though he’s reliving a memory he’d rather forget.

“maybe your sister is on the island too,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

the words hit you like a slap. your head snaps up, your eyes widening.

“excuse me?”

he hesitates, his gaze dropping.

“there’s something you need to know,” he says quietly, his voice weighed down by something heavy.

you don’t say anything, your stomach twisting into knots as he sits down on the bench and motions for you to join him. you hesitate for a moment before sitting beside him, the tension between you almost unbearable.

“the island,” he begins, his tone measured but laced with something darker, “isn’t just a place. it’s a... game. a series of games, actually. people are brought there, and they’re forced to compete. if they win, they get an obscene amount of money. if they lose...”

he trails off, but you don’t need him to finish. the implication is clear, and it makes your blood run cold.

“you’re telling me it’s some kind of... death game?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

he nods grimly.

“exactly that… and if your sister is there...”

you don’t let him finish. you can’t. the thought is too unbearable. if hana is on that island, then every second counts.

“did she leave anything behind?” jun-ho asks, his voice gentler now.

you shake your head, your mind racing.

“nothing. no clues, no messages. just... gone.”

you feel something on your left hand and you look down to see that his hand brushes yours, tentative but steady. you glance at him, startled by the contact, but his expression is soft, almost reassuring.

“we’ll find her,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

for a moment, you don’t respond. the weight of his words, the sincerity in his voice..it’s almost too much to bear.

“thanks,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion.

the two of you sit there in silence as the moon rises above the ocean, casting its pale light over the water. without thinking, you lean against him, your head resting lightly on his chest. he stiffens at first but then relaxes, his arm brushing around your shoulders in a way that feels deliberate.

“we’ll figure this out,” he says again, his voice steady now.

you nod, closing your eyes for a brief moment. the closeness between you feels... safe. like you’re not alone in this, even if it’s just for a night.

by the time the sun rises, the moment is over. the vulnerability, the quiet intimacy.. it’s gone, replaced by the sharp focus of the mission ahead. neither of you mention it, but something unspoken lingers in the air, a bond forged in shared fears and quiet confessions.

four days. that’s all you have left.

in the early afternoon.. the boat slows as it approaches the shoreline. you grip the semi-automatic rifle in your hands, its familiar weight a comfort despite the unease settling in your chest.

the island looms ahead, shadowed and uninviting, with dense foliage lining the shore and no sign of life beyond the eerie stillness.

jun-ho steps off the boat first, his movements precise and calculated. the police officer’s handgun is holstered at his side as he holds the bigger automatic in his hands, his posture is straight.

you follow, your boots crunching softly against the gravel as you step onto the narrow path ahead. the rest of the team falls in line behind you, their weapons raised, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

jun-ho turns to face the group, his expression stern.

“i’ll take point,” he says firmly, his gaze meeting yours briefly before moving on.

“i can lead,” you interject, your voice steady but firm.

“no?” you say.

“yes.” he protests.

“well, mr. policeman– were you in the special forces or is this you saying that you do not tru-”

“let me just protect you, okay?” he says your name after. jun ho is clear. he shakes his head, his jaw tightening.

the words catch you off guard, a warmth creeping into your chest despite the gravity of the situation. your grip on the rifle tightens as you search for something to say, but all you manage is a curt nod.

“fine,” you mutter, falling into step behind him.

the trail is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. bushes and vines press in from both sides, the occasional rustle of leaves setting your nerves on edge. jun-ho’s steps are deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning the path ahead, while you cover his back, your weapon at the ready.

you clear your throat, your voice low.

“everything look okay up there?”

he glances over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “so far,” he replies, his tone clipped but calm.

the tension between you hums like a live wire, unspoken words lingering in the air. it’s not just the situation..it’s him. the way he moves, the way he keeps glancing back at you, as if he’s making sure you’re still there.

you push the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. the gravel crunches beneath your boots as the trail twists and turns, the thick canopy overhead blocking out most of the sunlight. the rest of the team moves in a tight formation, their weapons raised, their eyes darting to every shadow.

“trail’s too clean,” you mutter under your breath, your gaze sweeping the ground.

“like it’s been used recently.”

jun-ho nods, his jaw tightening.

“I noticed.”

you glance at him, your brows furrowing.

“so, what’s the plan if this is a setup?”

he doesn’t answer right away, his focus on the path ahead. when he finally speaks, his voice is low and deliberate.

“we deal with it. we’ve gotten this far.”

jun ho’s confidence is steadying, even if you don’t entirely share it. you scan the surrounding foliage, the weight of the rifle in your hands grounding you.

the gravel path suddenly widens, opening into a small clearing. jun-ho raises his hand, signaling for everyone to stop. the group freezes, weapons raised, as his sharp eyes scan the area.

“what is it?” you ask, stepping closer to him.

he gestures to the far side of the clearing, where another trail picks up.

“it splits. two paths.”

your stomach tightens. splitting up isn’t ideal, but staying bunched together could make you an easy target.

“we should split into two groups,” jun-ho says, his voice calm but authoritative.

“cover more ground.”

you hesitate, glancing at him.

“are you sure about that? we don’t know what’s out here.”

“that’s why we keep communication tight,” he replies, his gaze locking with yours.

“stay close to your group. and don’t take risks.”

“fine,” you say again, your voice softer this time.

as the group splits, you end up with jun-ho, a decision that seems less about strategy and more about his insistence on staying close to you. you can feel the others’ eyes on you, their curiosity unspoken but palpable.

the new trail is narrower, the overgrowth pressing in from both sides. jun-ho keeps his pace steady, his shoulders brushing against yours occasionally as the path twists and turns. the silence between you stretches, heavy with unspoken tension.

finally, he breaks it.

“you okay back there?”

“i can handle myself,” you reply, a touch of defensiveness in your tone.

he glances at you, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.

“i know. doesn’t mean i won’t worry.”

the warmth from earlier returns, stronger this time. you focus on the path ahead, unwilling to let him see how his words affect you.

twelve hours later.. in the middle of the night in the lounge area, you feel suffocated. even with the boat’s attempt at cozy decor. the low hum of the boat engine is drowned out by the relentless patter of rain against the windows.

you sit on the worn-out couch, staring blankly at the table in front of you. the rain, usually a source of comfort, does nothing to soothe the storm brewing inside you.

you feel defeated. empty.

the mission on the island earlier had led to nothing. the island turned out to be nothing more than a small, desolate beach. no inhabitants. no clues. nothing.

three days left, and it felt like you were running out of time faster than you could grasp.

your chest tightens as your thoughts drift to hana. after losing your parents, she was the only person who made life bearable. she kept you grounded, gave you a purpose and a source to keep surviving after leaving the special forces. when mr. kim introduced you to gi-hun, you found a new sense of direction, but hana? hana was always home, and now she is gone.

your eyes sting, and before you know it, tears are slipping down your cheeks. you wipe at them angrily, frustrated at yourself for breaking down when you should be focusing. however, the thought of your sister..alone, scared, maybe hurt or worse..it’s too much.

“why would she do this?” you whisper to the empty room, your voice trembling.

“why would she risk her life for money?”

your hands tremble as they clench into fists on your lap. you know the answer. it was always about survival, about getting out of the hole life had thrown you both into. hana didn’t know the cost. she didn’t know about the games, about the killings.

she didn’t know that the promise of wealth came with the risk of ending up in a coffin on some forgotten island.

a sob escapes your lips, and you bury your face in your hands, the weight of it all crashing down. the fear, the hopelessness, the anger.. it spills out in ragged breaths and muffled cries.

you don’t notice the quiet footsteps until you feel a pair of arms wrap around you, pulling you into a warm, soft chest on the couch.

“it’s okay,” jun-ho’s voice is soft, steady, grounding.

“we’ll find her.”

you stiffen at first, caught off guard by his presence, but his hand moves up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes, and you let yourself lean into him.

“i don’t know...” you choke out, your voice breaking.

“i don’t know if we can.”

jun-ho pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. his eyes are filled with something you don’t expect.. understanding.

“i lost my brother many years ago,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that matches your own.

you blink, your tears pausing for a moment.

“your brother?”

he nods, his gaze distant.

“he disappeared without a trace. for years, i didn’t know what happened to him. i thought he was dead. then, when i found him... he wasn’t the same.”

you can see the pain etched into his features, the weight of a story he hasn’t told anyone else.

“but you know what?” he continues, his voice growing firmer.

“i still went after him because he was my brother.. because that’s what you do for your family. and that’s what we’re going to do for your sister. we’re going to find hana. we’re going to find gi-hun, and we’re going to end this.”

jun ho’s words wrap around you like a lifeline, pulling you out of the spiral of despair. you don’t know how he does it.

you don’t say anything, but you shift closer to him, burying your face in his chest again. the policeman’s arms tighten around you, holding you like he’s the only thing keeping you together.

as the rain continues to fall outside, the world beyond the boat fades away. all you can feel is the warmth of his embrace, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his presence anchors you.

after a while, you sit up, wiping at your tear-streaked face. jun-ho reaches out, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. the tenderness of the gesture sends a shiver through you.

“you’re way stronger than you think,” he says softly, his voice carrying a quiet conviction.

your eyes meet his, and something shifts in the air between you. the tension that’s been building over the past few days comes to a head, and before you can think twice, you lean in.

the moment your lips meet his, it’s like the rest of the world disappears. the man’s left hand cups your cheek and his right hand grabs your lower waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the weight of his kiss.

he kisses you back with a quiet dominance, his other hand resting on your waist, holding you steady. it’s not just a kiss…it’s a promise. a promise that he’s here, that he’ll protect you, that you’re not alone.

your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to reality. the rain pounds against the windows, the boat rocking gently with the waves, but all you can focus on is him.

when you finally pull back, your breaths are heavy, your foreheads resting against each other. his eyes search yours, and you see the same vulnerability reflected back at you.

“we’ll get through this,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady.

you nod, your fingers brushing against his jaw.

“together.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, as if savoring the moment. and for the first time in days, you feel a spark of hope reignite in your chest.

outside, the rain continues to fall, the boat drifting along the waves. somewhere out there is the island you’ve been searching for, the answers you desperately need.

for now, at this moment, all you can think about is the strong man holding you and how his lips give you the reassurance that you desperately need.

a/n: hope you enjoyed <3

#hwang jun ho #gi hun #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game s2 #kdrama #squid game spoilers #hwang in ho #hwang jun ho x reader

261 notes · View notes

pandora-writes-one-piece · 21 days ago

Text

The Meet-Cute - Zoro's Story - 10

Source for pic

Trouble 10

Word Count: 4546

Tags For The Whole Story: Fem!Reader; Protective!Zoro; Soft!Zoro; Sexual Tension; Teasing; Flirting; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Reader is being stalked; Fear; Paranoia; Angst; Rom-Com Vibes; Mild Gore-like Descriptions; Blood; Reader in a terror-like state; Dead Animals Mentioned; Fluff; Romance; Banter; Manipulation; Miscommunication; Frustration; Reader is very clumsy;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: After moving away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Line City to help your father around the property following a horse-riding accident - and in the hopes of healing your broken heart after your asshole ex-fiancé cheated - you settle into the country calmness of the Calm Belt. You and Zoro are slowly returning to your easy friendship filled with banter and flirting and you actually begin to glimpse a future with the green-haired cop. But then you start to receive weird gifts. They quickly escalate to manipulative texts. And now you're stuck in a spiral of terror and there's no way to get help because the Stalker, whoever he is, is threatening something other than just your life.

Notes: I feel like this story just keeps going from bad to worse! But bear with me, please! I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it. Chapter 11 will be NSFW and will end with a cliffhanger, just a heads up!

Masterlist

Just in case people missed this, I can't stop raving about @laidenbreecatchall art for Zoro! Just look at him! *sigh* Okay, back to the story:

This can't be happening. It can't. It's all a bad dream, and you're bound to wake up soon, drenched in sweat and tears. It has to be a nightmare.

Because the alternative is too terrifying.

“Tremble for me, Kitten.” He purrs against your ear, his breath sickeningly hot, as the fingers he has wrapped around your neck squeeze with a gentleness you wouldn't associate with a psychopath. “I get so turned on by seeing you scared.”

Gross. Sick. Disturbing.

Why does nobody come to your aid? The club is packed, doesn't anybody sense your distress? You try to move your head around in the vain hope of making eye contact with someone - anyone - but he just squeezes tighter. His chuckle is low, and somehow, you still hear it perfectly, even with the loud music thumping away in an infernal rhythm.

“Nobody is coming to help you, Princess. To everybody else, we look like a couple.” The hand that's gripping your wrist, holding it tight against your waist, pushes further, and you feel him pressed against your back. “To everybody else, you look like you're mine.”

He moves his lips, placing wet kisses along your neck as you sob softly. There's barely enough strength in you for more than that. You're terrified. Fight or flight instinct? How about frozen in fear? And what does he plan to do to you? Kidnap you? Abuse you? Kill you?

You try to turn your head to the side to get a glimpse of who he is because you can't shake the feeling that you've heard this voice before. You know this man. But the movement only makes him squeeze your neck tighter, and the only thing you glimpse is a black beanie.

“Not yet, Princess. You're not ready to see me yet.” He tuts softly and inhales your hair with a lewd groan. “Now… you know why I'm here, right? You misbehaved. You let the cop stay the night; you let the cop touch you; you let the cop kiss you.” He growls as he delivers the sentences, and his hand grips your wrist tighter. You're starting to lose feeling in the tips of your fingers as he seems to be cutting off your circulation. “I don't want to do this, Kitten, but I need to punish you. You need to learn.”

He sounds upset. Almost as if he's actually sorry he has to do this to you.

“But first…” He removes his hand from your neck, but it's as though a phantom limb is still pressed against your throat. The power and terror he exerts over you are unthinkable and terrifying. Then, you feel a weight in your pocket, and he sighs against your ear. “Here's your phone back, Princess. I got it from our kitchen drawer.” Our? “You can't shut me out. You won't change your phone again. Got it?”

You stay still, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. Your heart is thumping in such an insane rhythm that you wonder how you're not having a heart attack right now.

“Do you understand?” His free hand climbs your nape and grips your hair. When he pulls, you gasp and nod stiffly. “Good girl.” Another purr makes your ear vibrate, and you tremble from the heat of his breath against your skin.

His feverish touch travels from your nape to your neck, then to your clavicle, his nimble fingers gathering the fabric of your clothes as he exposes the flesh of your shoulder. Another involuntary shudder makes you tremble as you plead silently for one of your friends to come find you.

“You will do as I say and stop indulging the cop. Sever the connection, Kitten, or I will. And you won't like it.” His lips hover over your shoulder, and the hand on your wrist keeps squeezing. The bite of the bracelet is harsh and unforgiving, making your blood run cold.

“It would be the simplest thing. He gets called to an emergency and simply gets shot…” The stalker's chuckle sounds unhinged. “Boo-hoo. Another cop killed in the line of duty. No one would blink an eye.” Your lower lip trembles, and your heart constricts. He’s capable of hurting Zoro. And if Zoro dies, it's your fault. “But you'd know why he died. Do you want that, Kitten?”

“D–don't hurt him.” You whisper, and it's unlikely he heard you over all the loud noise of the club. Even so, for you, it seems as if the music is coming from a faraway place.

“That is entirely up to you.” He sighs, and you close your eyes. “Your punishment, Princess.” Then, his massive gloved hand covers your mouth as he sinks his teeth deep into your shoulder. You feel a sharp sting of pain traveling down your arm and back. Tears sting your eyes and your sobs drown in a muffled whine against his hand. The pain is blinding and hot, and you're pretty sure he's drawing blood.

A stark realisation hits you just as he removes his teeth from your flesh, his tongue collecting droplets of blood as he eases the sting.

He's marking you.

“Mine.” He growls, and a tear rolls down your cheek.

You feel helpless, violated, and terrified.

“You won't disobey me anymore, Kitten. You won't misbehave anymore, and more importantly, you'll get rid of the cop.” His hand leaves your mouth as he fixes your clothes to cover up the bite mark. “Or I will. Don't forget it.”

His other hand releases your wrist, and you let out a ragged breath as your fingers twitch from lack of circulation.

He's still pressing against you.

“You're almost ready. We'll be so happy together, Kitten.” Your head slumps forward when he presses his lips against the back of it in a mockery of affection. “Don't disappoint me anymore.”

Then, just as swiftly as he approached you, he leaves. You turn quickly on the spot, trying to get a glimpse of your tormentor, but you only seem to catch a sliver of white.

Was it hair? Clothes? The reflection of the lights?

Or just your tears playing tricks on your mind?

With trembling fingers and uneven breaths, you dislodge the bracelet that seemed to mould into your skin. The redness is daunting - it will bruise. Another whimper makes your lower lip tremble as you try to keep your wits about you.

You need to calm down. You need to act like nothing happened.

Zoro will be here any second now, and the stalker's threats were very clear. He'll hurt Zoro. He'll get rid of him if you don't push him away - whatever that might mean, so your plan to tell Zoro everything just went out the window.

You need to keep him safe. At all costs.

“Miss, your drinks are ready.”

A gasp leaves your lips, and you nod at the bartender. You’re still massaging your wrist, trying to alleviate some of the redness, but it's not disappearing. It's just getting worse.

The way your heart is beating out of sync is a testament to how scared you still are. You need to compose yourself. New plan: take the drinks to the table and immediately excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Then maybe you can leave, claiming to be sick. You can't disguise the bruising on your wrist, though. Thank heavens the bite on your shoulder is hidden.

With a steadying nod, you pick up the tray of beverages and make your way to the booth.

Leave the drinks. Bathroom. Excuse. Home.

It's simple. You can do it. And then you can work out a plan. Maybe you can make an anonymous tip to the police about your stalker. Would that work? Or beg Ichiji again for protection? Even if you have to grovel? Maybe ask your father where he stores his rifle and take matters into your own hands?

You try to ignore the fact that just the stalker’s presence left you frozen in fear. It's highly unlikely you can fight for yourself. Who are you trying to kid?

Leave the drinks. Bathroom. Excuse. Home.

You repeat the words like a mantra, but as soon as you set the tray on the table, you feel a touch on your waist, making you immediately flinch and hide your arm behind your back.

“Hey, Troublemaker.”

“Zoro!” The moment your eyes fall on his, all your resolve crumbles. He can help you, you know he can.

“Get rid of the cop… Or I will.”

“He gets called to an emergency and simply gets shot.”

No. You can't tell him anything.

Not yet, at least. Not before you have a foolproof plan to protect him. Can his captain help? Surely he can. You just need time to think this through. You need to shake away the fear and think with a cool head.

“Are you alright?” Zoro's eye scans your face. It's most likely still red. Your eyes still feel watery, and you're sure he's picking up on those signs. Zoro's hand still lingers on your waist, so you shuffle away from him and force a smile, your arm tucked behind your back.

“Yes, Zoro. I'm fine. Did everything work out with the bomb threat?” You step away from him and distribute the drinks with just one hand, your jaw clenching with the fakest smile you've ever produced.

“Not really, it was a freaking mess.” He sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Most of the time, these things are fake. Someone wants attention and pulls one of these, thinking it's funny. This time, it was a real threat.”

A small gasp leaves your lips as you lock eyes with Zoro again. A real bomb? But… Does that mean it wasn't the stalker who planted it? Or does it mean it was him, and he's just showing you again how seriously he can play?

How easily can he hurt Zoro?

“Another cop killed in the line of duty.”

“Shit.” You exclaim, and Zoro nods while reaching for a beer from the tray. After a sip, his expression softens, and he reaches for your waist again.

“Come here. We can talk later - we need to talk later - but for now… just come here.”

Your heart thumps louder than the music, and you feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. He's still watching.

“It would be the simplest thing…”

You take a step back to avoid Zoro's touch, your smile faltering as you try your hardest to keep a neutral expression.

“Trouble?” Zoro reaches again, and it's like your chest is exploding as you avoid his touch once more. “You're running again.”

The faintest flicker of pain darkens Zoro's gaze, and you bite your lower lip just to keep it from trembling.

“I'm not… I… I have to go to the bathroom.” And before he says something else, you rush towards the dimly lit corridor that leads to the bathrooms, but before you can take refuge inside, you hear Zoro call your name.

He’s following you.

You pretend that you don't hear him and press on, hastening your step.

“Wait!” He calls you again, and you raise your hand to push the door open, unshed tears are already pricking the back of your eyes. Would it be simpler to just tell him everything and hope for the best?

“You'd know why he died.”

You can't tell him.

“Trouble, stop!” Zoro nearly growls, his hand wrapping around your injured wrist in an effort to stop you. Instant pain shoots up your arm as you let out a hiss and a grunt. Stopping and turning towards him with a pained expression on your face, you almost let out a sob.

Zoro releases you instantly, his hands shooting up in a defeated position while his brows scrunch, searching your face for any clue as to why you reacted like this.

“I barely touched you.” Then it happens fast, and you don't have time to react.

Zoro's eye lowers as his gaze settles on your bruised wrist. You see it widen, his pupil dilating as realisation washes over him.

“What the fuck?” The music seems farther away in the bathroom corridor, yet it still vibrates low, making your chest thump in the same rhythm as the electronic tempo, but the buzzing in your ears doesn't come from the loud noise.

You've been caught.

“Who the fuck did this to you?” Zoro takes a menacing step forward, and you can physically feel the way the air shifts. You have no time to react when he grabs your arm again - avoiding the bruised area - and inspects it, revulsion and fury contorting his expression. “Tell me, Trouble. Now.” Zoro's tone brooks no arguments. He sounds deadly serious. No. He just sounds deadly.

“I–” You take a deep exhale and try to release your arm from Zoro's grasp, but it doesn't budge. His eye jumps from your face to your arm like he can't stand the sight of the bruise, but can't stand to look away either. “It's nothing, Zo!” You force a laugh, and it sounds fake and high-pitched. “I bumped into someone earlier and almost fell. The guy grabbed my wrist to keep me from falling, and the bracelet dug into my skin.” Another fake laugh. “You know how clumsy I am.”

That was believable. You think.

Zoro's jaw clenches and unclenches, and he snaps his neck, rotating his head as he also takes a deep exhale, a gesture meant to calm himself down.

“Lie to me one more time, Trouble…”

“I'm not–”

“You are! That's not an accidental bruise! Stop trying to fucking gaslight me. What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck do I have to kill?”

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

“You're being dramatic, Zoro, it really is nothing, I–”

“You stop showing up, you look like a ghost, you don't eat, you're scared, jumpy, you run from me and avoid my touch. Yet yesterday, you clung to me as if I was your lifeline.” Zoro takes another step forward, and now he's almost flush with you.

Safety. He's safety.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

“And now this? Let me in. Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

You can't.

“Zo…”

“There you guys are! Come on! We're going to sing happy birthday to Nami before Luffy raids the fridge and eats the cake by himself.” Usopp says, without really realising he’s intruded on a private conversation, but you couldn't be more thankful to him.

You take the opportunity while Zoro's distracted to actually run away from him, confirming his earlier affirmation that you're running and not caring one bit.

He can hate you all he wants. He can even be hurt with you.

You just can't bear it if he actually ends up hurt.

Or worse.

Dead.

-*-

The thumping music stopped just for Nami. The DJ got the birthday melody playing, and the whole club is celebrating your friend's birthday, even the ones that don't know her.

You can't stop a small smile from spreading on your lips: everybody loves Nami.

You somehow managed to lose Zoro amongst the hordes of people - he's big and bulky, so that gives him more trouble to manoeuvre around the crowd - and as soon as Nami blows out the candles, just after she and Vivi share a sweet kiss, you hug her and make up a quick excuse to leave the party early.

Then you flee the club without another thought. Not even caring if you don't have a ride home or if you didn't say goodbye to your friends.

You just need to get away from Zoro and his questioning.

The slight night chill and the difference in temperature make you shiver, though another buzz from your phone assures you the tremble comes from something other than the cold.

Yet, before you take two steps, his voice makes you stop.

“Stop running from us.” It’s Zoro. “Stop running from me.” He sounds exasperated and conflicted.

Your shoulders slump forward as you inhale deeply. He's relentless, and he will get to the bottom of this if he keeps pushing. And you can't allow that.

Even if it will destroy you.

“Tell me what's wrong, Trouble.” You turn to face him, and your knees wobble. Zoro's eye is full of anguish. He runs a hand through his hair and paces forward - everything in his posture is desperate. “I don't know what else to do to help you. I've tried being tough, I've tried giving you space, I'm trying to be understanding… Trouble… meet me in the middle. Please.”

You can't do this. You can't. He looks so broken, so helpless. And this could be easily remedied if you just told him what's going on.

But you can't. Because you know the Stalker will kill Zoro. And you can't bear that. You'd rather be scared and trapped for the rest of your life than risk Zoro's.

Zoro sees you struggling and takes full advantage of it, trying to sway you by cupping your face as he forces you to look at him.

“Let me in.” He pleads with a whisper.

Closing your eyes, you open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your voice was stolen. The lump in your throat grows, and so does the pain in your chest.

There's no other way.

“You got it all wrong, Zoro.” Your voice sounds foreign and affected. Still, you now focus your gaze on Zoro's scar. Not his eye, you can't bear that. “I'm not interested. I never was.”

Zoro's hands twitch slightly as his brow furrows, but you barely give him time to process your words before you deliver more pain.

“You just can't take a hint, can you? I'm trying to get away from you, but you keep pushing. I don't care for you like that, Zoro.”

You have to close your eyes to keep away the moisture and to prevent acknowledging Zoro's pain.

“Gosh, stop being clingy and needy. Leave me alone. That's all. I'm fine, I just need you to give me space.”

Zoro's hands part with your face torturously slow. You don't look him in the eye anymore, clenching your fists to prevent them from shivering violently.

But you stand your ground.

You need to push Zoro away. He needs to be safe. Even if your heart is shattering.

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

He stopped touching you, but he didn't back away. And as your eyes raise to meet his, you can see steely determination where before was only despair.

“You heard me: Bull. Shit.”

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Fuck.

“I'm dead serious, Zoro. This was fun and all, but I'm done. Leave me alone.”

You turn on your heel, trapping a sob behind clenched teeth and fighting back tears.

“Is this how you want to play? I can see what you're trying to do, Trouble, and it's bullshit.”

Bzzzz.

You shouldn't read it.

Yet you do.

Unknown: Try harder, Kitten, or I'll make him go away permanently.

“I’m not playing at anything. You don't matter.” The words leave your lips in the form of a whisper, but they linger in the air as if they were poisonous gas. Your insides twist and turn, and you feel nauseous.

“Say that again, Trouble.” You barely hear him, not only because of all the ringing in your ears, but also because his hurt is drowning the words.

Bzzzz.

No, no, no. You can't.

Bzzzz.

You have to.

“I said–”

“Turn around and say it to my face.”

A sob claws its way up your throat, and you swallow it back down. You need to keep it together for now.

With a slow turn, you face Zoro's disbelief, willing your heart to slow down, trying to keep your own emotions at bay before you collapse in tears.

“You don't matter.” You repeat the words, and the way Zoro's face turns from disbelief to pain is immediate and heartbreaking. “I was just having fun, but I didn't expect you to become so obsessed with me.”

You aimed to hurt, and it worked.

Zoro takes a step back as his eye faces the ground. The way his chest rises up and down with heavy gasps almost brings out the tears you're trying so hard to suppress.

“Goodbye.”

You turn and hasten your step, wanting to get away from him as fast as you can.

“Fine.” Your steps waver for a second when you hear Zoro’s voice, before you return to your uneven stride. “Fine! I'll back off. But I know you're lying to me.”

He doesn't say anything else, and you don't want to acknowledge the pain you heard in his voice. The pain you caused. Because your own pain is unbearable and immense.

And now you've pushed away the one person who would help and protect you unconditionally.

Bzzzz.

Unknown: That's my good girl. The punishment worked. You're almost ready.

-*-

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Zoro grits his teeth as his eye follows your shrinking form, watching it disappear into the dark horizon. Every freaking instinct tells him to follow you, but you've just pushed him away with everything you've got.

‘You don't matter.’

“Fuck!”

“Hey! What's going on?” Usopp places his hand on Zoro's shoulder, and he sighs, running a desperate hand through his hair.

“Nothing.” Then Zoro spots Kaya buttoning her jacket. “You leaving?”

“Yeah, I'm taking Kaya home, we have an early day tomorrow.” Usopp looks around and spots your disappearing form. “Where's she going?”

“What did you do?” Kaya interjects, hands already placed on her hips with a menacing scowl to back up her tiny, aggressive stance. Usopp’s brow raises at his girlfriend, and then he mimics her stance, his gaze also demanding answers Zoro doesn't really want to give. Zoro grits his teeth again, trapping a growl against them. He's so pissed, he can't even think straight.

“I didn't do anything!” He answers, exasperated. “Fuck! Usopp, can you give her a ride home? She just fucking left.”

Usopp nods, and Kaya jogs a little, trying to catch up with you before you gain more distance from them. So Zoro starts walking towards the club again before you come back, wanting to avoid another confrontation.

“Thanks.” He pats Usopp’s back and goes inside to say goodbye to his friends and grab his stuff.

This shit’s not over. You may think you've pushed him away with your performance, but all you did was reel him in more. Zoro had his suspicions, but now he's sure.

Someone is messing with you. And though his brain is telling him that someone is connected to Lucci and the store clerk, his heart is trying to push that possibility away. Because that fucker is dangerous, and Zoro's hoping against all hope that he didn't set his eyes on you.

Or Zoro’s going to have to murder someone.

Zoro's jaw keeps clenching as he drives towards the station. Even though he has the night off, he can't stay still. He's going to present his suspicions to Captain Mihawk and then forge a plan to protect you. Even if he has to drag your ass to the station and lock you in a cell.

He'll fucking do it.

Anything to keep you safe.

You're not going to spend another fucking day terrified of something you won't even tell him about.

‘You don't matter.”

Like shit, he doesn't. You can lie to him all you want.

He'll never give up on you.

-*-

It's barely after midnight when Usopp and Kaya drop you off at home. They have to get up early in the morning, so they couldn't party late, and you told them you weren’t feeling very well.

Neither of them pressed because they could clearly see the tears you were trying so hard to fight back. And you're sure they both know that you're crying because of Zoro, seeing as it was him who told them to give you a ride.

They just don't know that you were the asshole who brought the pain to both of you.

As Usopp’s car disappears down the driveway, you bolt the lock on the front door and place a chair against the doorknob, knowing deep down that it won't keep the stalker away, but still aiming for a sense of safety you know you won't achieve.

You do the same to your room, discard your club clothes, and finally look in the mirror to see the mark he left there. Your eyes widen as your trembling fingers run over the bruise: you can clearly identify the teeth marks, there's still caked blood around the wound and it's already turning a dark bruise colour.

You choke back sobs as you disinfect the wound and dress in your pyjamas. Outside, the weather seems to match your mood as you start to hear the gentle pitter-patter of the soft rain against the window.

You feel drained and exhausted. You were, once again, pushed into a corner. Never have you felt so trapped, helpless, and lonely. All the earlier fight, the will to try and find ways to get out of this predicament, left your body along with the hurtful words you delivered to Zoro.

‘You don’t matter.’

Gosh… he’s everything! But if it takes breaking you both apart just to save him, then you’ll do it over and over again.

Tomorrow is another day, and maybe after some serious consideration, you’ll know what to do.

As you curl up in your bed, trying to stay awake, but already knowing you'll succumb to exhaustion after having cried your heart out, you glance at your buzzing phone before closing your eyes.

Unknown: Such a good Kitten. My beautiful Princess. My love. Sleep. I'll watch over you.

-*-

You wake up with a jolt, feeling that something is amiss. You look around, your eyes darting to every shadow and every corner because your room feels wrong. Yet, you find everything in the same place. The shadows are still, and the room is quiet.

Your heart thrums against your chest, and you take a deep breath to try and calm down. It must've been a nightmare.

Patting your nightstand, you grab your phone. 01:15. It's still so early. Why did you wake up so suddenly?

And then you notice it. At first, it's just a red blur standing in your nightstand, but then, as you focus your wet eyes, they widen in fear, and you clasp your hand over your mouth.

There's a single red rose in the nightstand. He's been in your room.

He was near you.

A sob disturbs the quietness of the night, and almost immediately, it gets drowned out by a loud thunderclap. And then, you see something else.

Trembling fingers reach out, and you grab the small paper: it's a photo. And when your eyes adjust to the image and your brain processes it, you stay frozen in place, your breath held in suspension as more tears flood your eyes.

It’s a polaroid of you sleeping. Your brows are furrowed, and your cheek is wet, but what steals your breath is the huge, veiny, tanned hand that's gripping your hair in possession. The word ‘mine’ is scribbled in red across the picture in a distinct claim.

He was in your house.

He was in your room.

He touched you.

And you didn't even notice.

Taglist: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall

Liked this story? Like my writing? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi, please!

|Chapter 11🔞|

#reader x roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro roronoa x you #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro x you #you x zoro #reader x zoro #zoro x reader #reader insert #one piece #op #modern day au #the meet-cute

181 notes · View notes

cyanremalia · 1 year ago

Text

since my last meme worked out i might as well throw this one down

#lower quality + effort than ex frozen city coping #but that should be okay #i made this as i was finishing up days #kh #kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts 358/2 days #kh days #kh 358/2 days #roxas

225 notes · View notes

thebunnednun · 3 months ago

Text

Toast.

Pairing: Pro Hero! Katsuki Bakugou x Prohero!Ex! Reader

Years after you walked out of his life, Katsuki decides to literally open up his boxes of memories and lay them all out.

He can't stand how his mind won't let you go after all this time.

And after your most recent phone call,

He doesn't think he ever will.

Inspired by the song: Darling, I

Warning: Heavy angst, post break ups, crying Katsuki.

Wc; 4.1 K

'Fuck. I wish I never let you go.'

The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the soft hum of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Katsuki sat cross-legged on the plush black rug, his back against the couch, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey that he’d barely touched. The firelight danced across his face, its warmth doing nothing to thaw the cold ache in his chest.

In his lap sat an old photo album—something he hadn’t touched in years.

Katsuki told himself it was an accident, finding it while clearing out the closet, but the truth was he’d been looking for it. His fingers hovered over the edge of a photo, the corners worn from years of handling.

It was one of the two of you from your high school days. You were laughing at something Kaminari had said, and Katsuki’s hand rested protectively on your shoulder, a rare, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t ever tell a woman you love her if you don’t mean it,”

Kirishima’s voice echoed in his head, from a long-ago conversation.

“You said you did, though. Didn’t you?”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened, his crimson eyes flickering toward the fire.

He said it.

He’d meant it.

God, he’d meant it.

But meaning it wasn’t enough, was it?

The gala came back to him in flashes. The heated argument that had escalated faster than either of you could stop it. Your voice, sharp and cutting, accusing him of shutting you out. His, louder, angrier, drowning out whatever plea you might’ve been trying to make.

And then—fire.

Not from you, but from him.

A blazing retaliation that caught the bottom of your dress and sent you flying over the edge.

“Darling, I keep falling in love.”

The lyrics from some stupid song that’s been trending lately plays unbidden in his mind, mocking him.

‘Falling in love?’

More like falling apart.

And yet,

Sitting here surrounded by the ghosts of your shared life, he wondered if he’d ever really stopped falling.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking the silence. Katsuki leaned forward, the amber liquid in his glass sloshing dangerously close to the edge. He glanced at the screen:

Mom.

“Shit,” he muttered, letting it ring out. Mitsuki Bakugo had been relentless since the holidays began, demanding that he “grow a pair” and talk to you. As if it were that simple.

As if a few words could undo years of hurt and silence.

“Forever’s too long,” he muttered to himself, echoing her favorite line when she brought you up. Yeah, it was too long. Too long to keep replaying the same memories like a goddamn broken record.

Too long to keep holding onto someone who clearly didn’t want to be held.

He drained the whiskey, setting the glass down harder than he intended. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the apartment, and Katsuki winced, running a hand through his messy blond spikes. His gaze shifted back to the photo album, to your smile, frozen in time.

Like you never left.

Katsuki swiped angrily at his face, cursing under his breath. He didn’t even notice the tears until one splashed onto the page.

How the hell had it come to this?

He had everything he’d ever wanted—the fame, the recognition, the goddamn hero ranking to prove it.

But it felt hollow.

“Oh, they wanna tie me down, that bondage just might break. I can’t sign the dotted line; just how long is forever?”

That had been his excuse back then, hadn’t it?

Fear of forever.

Failure.

The weight of tying himself to someone when his career demanded everything.

But now, sitting alone in his cold, immaculate apartment,

Katsuki couldn’t help but think he’d been an idiot.

‘Maybe letting go is a beautiful thing,’ he thought bitterly, except it wasn’t beautiful.

It fucking hurt.

And no amount of hero work or accolades could fill the space you’d taken with you.

The whiskey glass sat precariously close to the edge of the coffee table, its amber contents catching the firelight like liquid gold.

Katsuki stares at it, unfocused, his mind too far gone to care if it tips over. His breaths come unevenly, the weight in his chest pressing down harder with each passing second.

The photo album rested on his lap like a lead weight, and he flipped the page with trembling fingers. There you were again—another snapshot of a life he hadn’t realized he’d been taking for granted.

This one was from your first Hero Gala together.

You wore a sleek, shimmering gown that hugged your figure, and Katsuki stood beside you in his perfectly tailored suit, scowling at the camera while you beamed brightly enough to make up for it.

"Sweet and spicy," Mina had teased back then, snapping the photo.

"The perfect pair."

And for a while, you had been. Katsuki could almost hear your laughter in the silence of the room, could almost feel the brush of your fingertips against his arm as you whispered something to him that cold night air, something only meant for him.

His hand clenched into a fist, crumpling the edge of the page.

The memory of that night—the gala that ended it all—burned at the back of his mind like a scar that refused to fade.

Katsuki stood abruptly, the photo album sliding from his lap and landing with a soft thud on the rug. The whiskey had gone bitter in his mouth, and his chest ached with the weight of it all. He paced toward the window, dragging a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck as if to ground himself.

The skyline stretched out before him, the glittering city lights blinking like fireflies in the distance. It was beautiful in a way that made his heart clench.

Somewhere out there, you were living your life, and he had no right to wonder if you ever thought of him the way he thought of you—

Late at night, alone. When the silence was too loud.

“Forever,” he muttered again, his voice low and rough. Katsuki leaned his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the pane as he exhaled.

“Yeah, right.”

His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and tired.

Katsuki hated the man looking back, the hero who could save the world but not himself. The words he’d thrown at you during that fight echoed like gunshots, ricocheting off the walls of his mind.

“You think I can just drop everything for you?” he had snarled, the veins in his neck taut with anger.

The way your face had crumpled… he’d see it every time he closed his eyes.

The argument had started small, as these things often do.

A misplaced comment here, a sharp retort there. Katsuki didn’t even remember what had sparked it anymore, only that it had spiraled out of control faster than he could keep up.

“You think this is enough for me?” you’d snapped, your voice low but venomous, cutting through the noisy chatter of the gala like a blade.

“You think I can just sit back and be your cheerleader while you push me further and further away?”

Katsuki had bristled, his temper flaring instantly. “You think I like this shit?” he’d barked, gesturing to the opulent surroundings.

“You think I asked for people to crawl up my ass every time I breathe? I’m doing this for us!”

“For us?” you’d laughed, bitter and disbelieving. “Don’t lie to me, Katsuki. Don’t act like you love me if you don’t mean it.”

“This isn’t some fairy tale, and I’m not your fucking prince!”

His response had been immediate and instinctive, a roaring denial that had drawn the attention of nearby guests.

But the damage was already done.

You hadn’t yelled back after that. You’d just gone quiet, your lips trembling as if you were holding back words that could shatter you both.

The heat of your anger had flared in your quirk, with you catching the hem of his tuxedo jacket and sending him careening over the balcony with a forceful scream.

When he’d dragged himself back inside, soot-streaked, soaking wet from the rain, and seething—

You were gone.

The soft click of your heels behind you louder than any explosion he’d ever made.

He hadn’t chased you.

Katsuki balled his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms. That had been the biggest mistake of his life—standing there, letting you walk away.

At the time, he’d told himself it was for the best.

You deserve someone who could give you everything, not someone chained to a profession that demanded his soul.

But now, years later, all he had were awards he didn’t care about and an emptiness he couldn’t ignore anymore.

“Da-da, da, keep falling in love,” you’d once hummed softly under your breath, leaning against the kitchen counter in your tiny shared apartment. The one he picked to save up money for Izuku's suit.

You hadn’t noticed him watching you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Back then, the sound of your voice had been enough to ground him after a long day.

He swallowed hard, the memory cutting through him like a blade. “Falling in love,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking.

“What a fucking joke.”

The sound of the glass tipping snapped him back to the present. Katsuki lunged forward, catching it just before it shattered on the hardwood floor. The sudden movement sent the photo album sliding down where he left it, its contents scattering across the rug.

“Fuck,” he muttered, setting the glass aside and reaching for the fallen photos. His fingers hesitated over one in particular—a candid shot of you asleep on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder.

He didn’t even know who had taken it, but it was one of his favorites.

‘Darling, I keep falling in love.’

The melody whispered through his mind again, relentless and mocking. He let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing over your image.

“What the hell was I thinking, letting you go?”

The apartment felt colder than usual, despite the roaring fire. It wasn’t just the lack of your presence—it was the absence of life, of warmth, of anything real.

Furniture was pristine, untouched. The awards and accolades lining the shelves were polished to perfection but hollow in their meaning.

He glanced toward the closet, where a single, dusty box sat in the corner. He hadn’t opened it since you left. It was the only thing you hadn’t taken with you, and he’d never had the guts to look inside.

Katsuki pushed himself to his feet, the photo still clutched in his hand. He made his way to the closet, each step heavier than the last.

When he reached the box, he hesitated, his fingers hovering over the lid.

“Don’t be a coward,” he muttered to himself, gritting his teeth.

With a deep breath, Katsuki pulled the lid off.

The first thing he saw was your handwriting, scrawled across a folded note resting on top of the neatly packed contents. His chest tightened painfully as he unfolded it, the familiar curve of your letters hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Katsuki,

I want to explain, but I don’t know how. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.

I don’t expect you to change for me. Maybe you hate me, and that’s okay. I just couldn’t do it anymore—not like this.

I loved you. I still do. Maybe I always will. But love isn’t enough when we’re tearing each other apart. I won't continue to stay in a toxic environment.

I love you enough to set you free.

We have so many dreams and I'm going to achieve mine.

I hope you find what you’re looking for. I hope you find happiness, even if it’s not with me.

Keep being a hero I can be proud of.

Forever Your Love and Lady

~Your (maybe) Future Wife

Katsuki gently laid the note from his fist on the coffee table, his vision blurring with unshed tears. His breathing hitched as he sank to his knees, the box forgotten at his side.

Fuck everything right now.

He couldn't have worse timing.

The fire crackled behind him, casting long, flickering shadows across the room. But all Katsuki could see was your face, all he could hear was your voice, and all he could feel was the crushing weight of what could have been.

“Forever’s too long,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“But it wasn’t long enough with you.”

The photo album lay open on the rug, the pages flipping lazily in the breeze from the cracked window. Katsuki’s gaze drifted to it, the flicker of nostalgia pulling at him like a riptide. He stalked back toward the couch and dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he reached for the album.

The next page revealed another photo, this one candid. You were sitting cross-legged on the grass during a rare picnic, your face half-hidden behind a slice of watermelon, grinning like an idiot.

Next to you, Kirishima was doubled over laughing, and Mina was holding up a peace sign behind your head. Katsuki stood in the background, arms crossed, pretending not to care.

But the way his eyes lingered on you in the photo said everything he never could.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his throat tight.

Katsuki swiped at his eyes again, the tears coming faster now.

He’d spent so much of his life running—running from vulnerability, from the risk of loss, from the terrifying truth that he needed you. But in the end, it didn’t matter how fast he ran. The pain still found him, clinging to his every step like a relentless shadow.

The box, still open beside him, was a time capsule of your shared history. Beneath the note lay a tangled mess of memories: an old hoodie you’d stolen from him, still faintly smelling of caramel and strawberries; a Polaroid of the two of you on your first trip to the beach, his face begrudgingly half-smiling as you threw your arms around him, your old cheerleader uniform, tickets from movie dates, a few notebooks from UA, some bracelets he'd made you; and a small, lopsided clay sculpture of a cat you’d made during some ridiculous pottery class Mina had dragged you both to.

Katsuki picked up the sculpture with care, his thumb running over its uneven surface.

He’d laughed at it back then, calling it ugly as hell, but you’d just grinned and told him it was supposed to be that way—it gave it “character.”

Now, it felt like the most precious thing in the world, its imperfections a mirror to his own.

“Why’d you leave this?” he whispered to the empty room, his voice thick with emotion.

“Why’d you leave me?”

Katsuki knew why you fucking left him.

The answer was written plainly in your letter, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. He’d been too blind, too stubborn to see what you’d needed from him, and by the time he’d realized, it was too late.

He’d pushed you away with his anger, his pride, his refusal to admit that he was terrified of losing you.

And in doing so, he’d ensured exactly that.

Katsuki set the sculpture down with trembling hands, his head falling into his palms as a choked sob escaped him. The world had always painted him as unbreakable, a hero who could withstand anything.

But here, in the solitude of his apartment, surrounded by the remnants of your love, he was just a man

—flawed, broken,

and utterly lost without you.

The melody from the song drifted through his mind again, relentless and cruel,

“Darling, I keep falling in love...”

With a growl, he shoved the box aside and stood, pacing the room like a caged animal. The ache in his chest was unbearable, a gaping wound that no amount of hero work could heal.

He wanted to scream, to punch something, to burn the entire world down if it meant he could feel anything other than this crushing emptiness.

But what would that solve?

What would any of it solve?

His gaze landed on his phone, still resting on the coffee table where he’d left it. Mitsuki’s missed call stared back at him like a challenge, and for once, he didn’t ignore it. With a deep, shuddering breath, Katsuki snatched it up and scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over your name.

He hadn’t deleted it. He couldn’t.

Even after all this time, the thought of erasing you from his life completely was too much to bear.

But now, as his finger hovered over the call button, he hesitated.

What the hell would he even say?

That he was sorry? That he was a coward?

How he still loves you, despite everything?

Instead, Katsuki stared at the screen, his jaw tight and his heart pounding in his chest.

The words won’t come. They never do.

His thumb moved as if on its own, clicking on your contact and opening the text thread. The last message was from you, years ago—a simple,

“Take care of yourself, Katsuki.”

He clenched his teeth, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

“I miss you.”

The words stared back at him, stark and vulnerable on the screen. He hesitated for a long moment before deleting them. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Instead, he typed something else—something raw, something real.

“I was an idiot. I should’ve fought for you. I should’ve fought with you. I’m sorry.”

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, the message disappearing into the void. The phone slipped from his hand, landing softly on the couch as he sank down beside it. His head fell back against the cushions, his eyes closing as exhaustion overtook him.

For the first time in years, Katsuki allowed himself to hope.

Maybe, somehow, it wasn’t too late.

His phone buzzed again, breaking his spiraling thoughts. This time, it wasn’t his mom.

It was you.

Katsuki froze, his breath catching in his throat. The screen lit up with your name, your contact photo still the same one he’d set years ago—a close-up of your face, mid-scream, after he’d shoved a snowball down the back of your jacket. His thumb hovered over the screen, his pulse pounding in his ears.

What the hell did you want?

His mind raced with possibilities, each one more ridiculous than the last. Maybe you were drunk and scrolling through old contacts.

Maybe it was some bad news.

Maybe you'd dropped your phone in a fight and he was your emergency contact.

Maybe you’d accidentally called him instead of someone else.

Maybe this was some cruel joke on your behalf.

Or maybe—just maybe—you missed him as much as he missed you.

The phone buzzed again, and he cursed under his breath. He let it ring twice more before finally swiping to answer.

“Yeah?” His voice came out gruff, harsher than he intended.

There was a pause on the other end, and for a moment, he thought you’d hung up. But then your voice came through, soft and tentative.

“Katsuki…?”

His name on your lips hit him like a punch to the gut. He clenched his jaw, his free hand gripping the edge of the couch for support.

“What do you want?” he asked, his tone defensive, like armor against the hope creeping into his chest.

You hesitated, and he could picture you biting your lip, the way you always did when you were nervous.

“I—I need your help.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and uncertain. Katsuki’s heart stuttered, his mind racing. He didn’t know what you needed, but in that moment, he realized something.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter how deep the hurt ran, he’d never stopped wanting to be the one you called when everything fell apart.

It struck him in a place he’d buried long ago, his chest tightening as memories surged forward unbidden. For a second, the world around him faded.

“Yeah?” he rasped, his voice quieter than he intended, almost reverent.

“I—” You inhaled sharply, the sound shaky as if you were fighting for air. “It’s my grandma’s will. Someone in the family is contesting it, and I—” Your voice broke, and his grip on his phone tightened.

“I thought I had it with me, but I dodn’t. It’s—it’s somewhere in a box back there, and I just—I can’t lose her home. Everything is in there, Katsuki. Everything.”

Your words tumbled out in a rush, frantic and laden with grief. Katsuki could hear it: the weight of losing her, of memories slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

It made his chest ache, twisting with emotions he hadn’t faced in years.

“You sure it’s here?” he asked, already scanning the room, his mind piecing together where it might be.

“I—I think so,” you stammered. “I was so sure when I packed, but now… Oh, God, I can’t breathe—”

“Hey,” he cut in sharply, his tone grounding. “Breathe. You hear me? Slow and steady, like this.” He exaggerated his breathing into the phone, his breaths loud and deliberate, as if sheer force could drag you out of your spiral. He could hear you on the other end, trying to mimic him, your breaths still jagged but slowing.

Katsuki’s own chest loosened ever so slightly.

“Good,” he said softly. “Now, don’t move. I’m lookin’.”

The room was a mess, strewn with boxes he hadn’t touched in months, maybe years. His hands worked on autopilot, pulling open lids, rifling through layers of forgotten treasures.

Old photos, mismatched socks, gear from training sessions—it was all a blur as he focused on your voice in the background.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice quieter now but no less fraught. He heard you talking to someone——and his ears perked the fuck up.

“Yeah, just heat it up. I’ll be out in a second.”

His jaw clenched at the sound of your voice addressing someone else, but he shoved the feeling aside, muttering a string of curses as he knocked over a box. “Damn it.”

“What?” you asked, alarmed.

“Not you,” he grunted, running a hand through his hair and glancing at the piles around him. His palms were clammy, and he scrubbed at them on his pants. “Just...I’m fine.”

Your soft laugh at his flustered tone sent a jolt through him. He grumbled under his breath, trying to ignore the way it made his pulse quicken.

Then, it hit him.

“Wait,” he muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, making his way to the freezer. He yanked it open, the cold air blasting his face as he dug past forgotten food containers and ice packs. “Where the hell—”

“Katsuki?”

“Not talkin’ to you!” he barked, banging his head against the freezer’s edge.

“Shit!”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he growled, biting back a string of curses. His fingers burned from the cold as he shoved aside another frosted-over bag. Then, his hand hit something solid and unmistakable.

He pulled it out, a plastic binder covered in condensation, his breath catching in relief. “Got it.”

“What?”

“The will,” he said, holding it up as if you could see through the phone. His lips twitched into the smallest, most fleeting of smiles. “Guess you still hide stuff in the freezer, huh?”

A soft laugh came from your end, tinged with disbelief.

“You found it?!”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, gripping the binder tighter.

“Told ya. You can count on me.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, filled with things neither of you could quite say. His chest felt too tight, his palms sweating again despite the chill.

'How do you manage to own me after all this time?'

“Thank you,”

You whispered, your voice softer now, warmer. It was the first time in years he’d heard you sound like this—like you trusted him.

And damn if it didn’t feel like coming home.

“Can we meet?” you asked, your voice hesitant but steadying. “At the ramen spot near the convenience store? You know, the one we used to go to…”

The memory of that little shop flickered to life in Katsuki’s mind. The mismatched chairs, the warm glow of the neon sign, the way you’d always insist on extra toppings while he rolled his eyes and covered the bill anyway.

But the image was quickly replaced by another—a blur of voices, the usual get-together Ochako and Mina loved organizing.

Everyone would crowd into the tiny space, including Shinsou, Aizawa, and even Eri perched on her dad’s side.

He grimaced. “Tch, I dunno if that’s a good—”

The sound of a crash on your end cut him off.

“Shit!” you gasped, your voice sharp with worry. Katsuki’s heart leapt into his throat.

“What the hell was that?” he barked, gripping the phone tighter.

There was no response, just the sound of you dropping the phone and running. He could hear muffled voices, your hurried footsteps, and the faint murmur of concern as you called out,

“Are you okay?”

For a moment, his stomach twisted.

What if you weren’t safe? What if—

But then he heard it.

You were laughing.

It started soft, a chuckle slipping through the static, but it grew, spilling out in full-bodied peals that echoed through the line. Katsuki froze, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Your laugh.

It hit him like a freight train, vivid memories rushing in all at once. Your face, lit up with joy. The way your eyes sparkled when you teased him. The warmth of your skin brushing against his arm, unintentional but electric.

The sound of your laughter—it was a melody he hadn’t realized he’d been desperate to hear again.

It felt like someone struck him with a tuning fork, the vibrations resonating deep in his chest. For a moment, Katsuki forgot how to breathe.

“Sorry about that,” you said, still catching your breath. “My neighbor’s kid tripped over her homework and knocked over a chair. They’re fine, don’t worry.”

He tried to focus on your words, but his mind was swimming, his grip on the phone clammy.

“You still there, Katsuki?”

Even the way you said his name was so—

“Yeah,” he managed, his voice rough. He cleared his throat, hoping you didn’t notice.

“I'm still here.”

“Good,” you said softly, and he could almost hear the smile in your voice.

“So… ramen? Tomorrow?”

He swallowed hard, the warmth of your laughter still lingering in his chest.

Katsuki closes his eyes, and for a moment, he can feel your warmth as you wrap your arms around him, your soft lips by his ear, legs around his waist, and the beat of your heart matching that of his own.

“I’ll be there.”

Part 2 is up now

Taglist: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r, (I haven't posted in a while so please munch on this.)

Lemme know if you wanna be added to the list!

I own none of the images or art!!!

Be sure to check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. I have some more Katsuki (and mother mha) here in the master list. I also have a Pro Hero! Bakugou x Sugar Baby fic.

Drop a follow as well if you please. Don’t be shy to leave me a little reblog if you want.

I promise I bite~

See you soon my loves!!

(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

263 notes · View notes