#or ending up in the hospital after an accident

[sabrinajenre96]

Light After Darkness

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Resident!Wife!Reader

Word Count: ~5,000

Warnings: Emotional abuse, physical abuse (described), miscarriage, trauma, past domestic violence, PTSD triggers, hospital setting, emotional confrontation, comfort, healing, soft!husband Michael, strong!reader, swearing.

---

Light After Darkness

The ER was chaos.

It always was on a Friday night, but this time it was different—sirens screamed louder than usual, and the Pitt staff was already in motion before the gurneys rolled in. A multi-vehicle crash on the highway. Casualties. Screams. Blood. Sirens.

Resident Y/N Robinavitch was already tying her hair back tighter and snapping on gloves as paramedics burst through the doors. “Incoming!” someone called, and the stretchers kept coming. Her heart pounded from the adrenaline, but her hands didn’t shake.

They never did anymore.

Until him.

“Male, late thirties, blunt force trauma, decreased consciousness, passenger had only minor cuts,” a paramedic rattled off.

Y/N turned, instinctively stepping forward to take the female patient.

And froze.

Her ex.

It was him.

Flat on a stretcher, unconscious but unmistakably him. No. Her breath caught. The world around her blurred for a moment. Voices warped. Her knees nearly buckled, but muscle memory had her moving toward the woman beside him.

His wife.

“You got this?” one of the nurses asked, noting the stillness in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said too quickly. “I’ve got her.”

She didn’t look at the man. Not again. Not once more.

Instead, she focused on the woman now sitting on the gurney in front of her. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Shaking. Pale. But not from the accident. Y/N had seen this look before.

On herself.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch,” she said gently. “You’re safe, okay? I’m going to examine you.”

The woman nodded, eyes darting toward the trauma room where her husband—Y/N’s ex—was being wheeled. Y/N noted the hesitation. The dread.

The bruises on the woman’s arms told her everything she already suspected.

Not from the crash.

Older. Faded fingerprints. Defensive bruises.

Her breath caught in her chest again, but she pushed through it.

She wasn’t that girl anymore. She was a doctor. A wife. A mother. Michael’s wife. Robby’s. Her safe place.

Still, she couldn’t stop the tremor in her fingers as she palpated the woman’s ribs.

“Have you been in pain before today?” Y/N asked softly, eyes flicking up.

Before she could respond, the door opened and in walked the last person Y/N ever wanted to see.

Her ex’s mother.

The same woman who told her to stop being so sensitive. The one who said, “Boys get angry sometimes.” The one who had never believed her. Never protected her.

Tension hit the room like a storm.

“Oh,” the woman said, recognizing her instantly. “You.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She stood straighter. “Mrs. Hargrove.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she snapped. “This is my son’s wife. You shouldn’t be near her.”

“Your son is in trauma. His wife is my patient. I’m doing my job,” Y/N replied calmly.

But her pulse roared in her ears.

“You always were good at playing victim,” the woman hissed, stepping closer. “You left him and ruined his life. You made him into this—”

“That’s enough,” Y/N snapped, louder than she meant to. She stepped away from the patient. “You want to talk? Let’s talk. Right here. Let’s finally tell the truth.”

Nurses paused mid-charting.

A junior resident glanced up from across the room.

The silence stretched thick and electric.

“For three years I covered for your son,” Y/N said, voice steady. “I lied in ERs across the state. Said I fell. That I was clumsy. That I tripped down the stairs. All because I was terrified of what would happen if I told the truth.”

She could feel everyone listening now. Could feel the weight of a lifetime she’d buried rising from her throat.

“The night your husband helped me get away, I ended up back in the ER. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. And I—” her voice cracked, just for a second, “—I lost the baby I didn’t even know I was pregnant with.”

Gasps echoed across the ER.

“I was told I might never get pregnant again because of what he did to me.”

Silence. No one moved. Not even the woman on the gurney.

Y/N turned her gaze to her ex-mother-in-law. “You knew. You enabled him. And now another woman is sitting here, in the same bruised silence I once sat in.”

She pointed gently toward the woman beside her.

“This is what you’ve created. By defending a monster instead of helping him. By telling me to keep quiet. By choosing his reputation over my safety.”

The older woman’s mouth opened—no words came.

Y/N turned to the woman on the gurney, meeting her eyes gently.

“I barely survived him. And he won’t change. He never will. You can save yourself. But only if you leave. Because next time… he might succeed.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t need one.

She handed the patient chart off and left the room, moving fast through the corridor. She didn’t stop until she reached the rooftop.

The sky was dark above her. City lights below. Cold air wrapped around her like a warning.

She was shaking.

That wasn’t professional. That was a breakdown. A meltdown.

She had yelled. In the middle of the ER.

She folded in on herself, chest tight. Her badge clipped to her coat suddenly felt heavy. Her throat burned.

She didn’t hear the door open. But she felt the hand.

It touched her shoulder gently.

She flinched violently, spinning around, eyes wide—

“Hey,” a voice said, soft and familiar.

Michael.

“Robby…” she whispered, and something in her cracked all over again.

He stepped forward slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Hey, it’s just me. I’m here.”

Her lip trembled. “I—I was unprofessional. I shouldn’t have said anything. I lost control and—”

He stopped her with a kiss.

Soft. Gentle. Warm.

When he pulled back, his hands stayed on her cheeks. “You don’t get to apologize for that. For surviving.”

“I never told you—”

“I know.” His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. “I knew you had been hurt. I didn’t know how much. You never wanted to talk about it, and I didn’t want to push. But tonight… it all made sense.”

Y/N looked away, ashamed. “I should’ve walked away. I should’ve kept it together.”

“No. You carried that pain for years. Alone. Even with me. Even after we got married. Even after Sawyer and Spencer.” His voice cracked slightly. “You carried that burden without ever letting me help.”

“I didn’t want to burden you—”

“You’re not a burden,” he said fiercely. “You’re the strongest woman I know. You’re brilliant. You’re an amazing doctor. An even better mother. And you still got up every day and let me love you, even when it scared you.”

She broke then. Fully.

Tears spilled fast, unstoppable. Michael pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her tightly as she sobbed into his coat.

“I almost died that day, Robby,” she whispered into his chest. “I didn’t think I’d ever have kids. But then we had them. Our girls. It’s a miracle.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re my miracle.”

She looked up at him, eyes swollen with emotion. “You saved me. You are my light after all that darkness.”

Michael smiled through his own tears and nodded. “Then let me keep being your light. Always.”

Y/N launched herself into his arms again, hugging him tight. He held her even tighter.

And for a while, they just stood in the silence. Rooftop breeze curling around them. The world quiet below. Two souls tangled in healing.

Eventually, Y/N whispered, “Our girls call me a queen.”

“They’re right,” Michael replied. “You are. You always have been.”

---

End

Bonus Scene – A Soft Night and A Small Spark

The house was quiet. The kids were asleep. Michael had made sure of that before Y/N even walked through the front door.

She stepped inside slowly, her movements heavy, exhaustion weighing her down in more ways than one. She dropped her bag near the bench, then turned to find Michael waiting in the kitchen, a cup of chamomile tea already in his hand for her.

“I knew you’d need this,” he said softly.

She smiled tiredly, taking it from him. “You know me too well.”

“Perks of marrying you,” he teased lightly.

They sat on the couch, her legs curled beneath her, the mug warming her hands as silence lingered gently between them. It wasn’t awkward. It never was. Michael’s presence was her peace.

“How were the girls?” she asked eventually.

“Sawyer asked if you were saving the world again. I told her yes.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t feel very heroic today.”

Michael turned toward her, his eyes gentle. “You didn’t just save a patient. You might have saved a life.”

Y/N hesitated. “You think she’ll leave him?”

“I saw her before I left. She asked the nurse for social work. Said she wanted to talk to someone.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. That tiny thread of hope settled in her chest like a warm ember.

“She was terrified,” Y/N whispered. “Just like I was.”

“She’s not alone anymore,” Michael said. “Because of you.”

They fell silent again until a small pair of feet padded into the living room. Sawyer.

“Mommy?” her voice was soft, sleepy.

Y/N smiled, holding out her arms. Sawyer climbed up without hesitation, curling into her lap.

“I had a bad dream,” she mumbled into Y/N’s shoulder.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Sawyer shook her head. “Can you just hold me?”

“Always.”

Michael moved beside them, arm wrapping around both of them.

As Sawyer drifted back to sleep in her mother’s arms, Y/N looked at Michael, eyes glistening.

“I was scared for so long… and I never thought I’d get this. You. Our kids. Peace.”

Michael kissed her forehead. “You deserve all of it.”

“I’m not that broken girl anymore,” she said quietly.

“No. You’re a warrior. My warrior. And their queen.”

Y/N hugged Sawyer tighter, and Michael pulled them both closer.

For the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel like a survivor.

She felt like she’d won.

---

End of Bonus Scene

[asxgard]

This is for Frank Langdon where the both of you guys are doctors in the hospital but in different departments. However after a long and busy day requiring the efforts of the entire hospital, in your guys make it home to your apartment and he accompany you in the shower for shower sex. Just to hold each other and be close after the long day

Slow | one shot

Dr. Frank Langdon x f!doctor!reader

Requested

Summary: It was a shift with all hands on deck. You’re thankful that at the end of it, Frank’s hands are all over you.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: Frank was interesting to write for! I think I might have a series brewing…

Also I’m not confident in my smut work, so I apologize if it’s lacking but I hope you like, anon!

Word Count: 1.1k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: afab!reader, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, unprotected sex (seriously, wrap it up), mild angst, mild fluff, hospital setting, Frank is divorced, drugs?? what drugs, car crash victims/injuries of children, canon-typical gore, pet names (prettyboy, sweetheart)

not beta read

It was not unheard of for you to be down in the ED — for a consult, to bring a patient up to the ICU, or even just when you had a few minutes to spare. That was how you had met Dr. Langdon, over a pediatric patient who was going to need intensive care after a car accident. You had been down there to help stabilize before bringing him to surgery, where he would then come to the Pediatric ICU for the remainder of his stay.

Frank had been a livewire when you first met him, freshly divorced and on a downward spiral. His overtime was working overtime so he did not have to return to his quiet apartment. You weren’t exactly sure when something between you two clicked — likely somewhere between resuscitating a drowned little girl and sitting on the stairs hours later after she had been moved upstairs.

Neither of you really gave it a name, and with his divorce only months behind him, you had not wanted to title it. You weren’t really even looking for anything at the time, so being patient was not hard. Even as the months ticked on, you were content with late nights spent at his or lazy weekends at yours. No real dates, or anything concrete, but it was good.

The ED was a flurry of movement, of calculated chaos, bursting at the seams when you stepped off the elevator. It was usually those moments you questioned Frank’s sanity, for being able to thrive under the pressure of it all.

A mass pileup during the worst summer storm in recent memory had pulled a significant amount of doctors down to the ED, you included. You had heard a school bus full of kids had been involved, which was where you were planning to focus your attention.

To your relief, most of them had only been minorly injured, only one with a possible tibia break after being thrown from his seat. You moved your attention to the other patients, assisting where you were needed and assessing the kids who had come in.

You moved to get a suture kit for a head wound, and Frank stepped beside you. You did what you could to keep whatever it was between you a secret, but at the end of the day, you worked upstairs and didn’t particularly care about the ED rumor mill.

“Still expecting a few more ambulances.” He told you, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Anything serious?”

He shrugged, “Possible broken bones, and a severe laceration, I think.”

It was not just a few broken bones and a severe laceration. It was several. Add in the few slip and falls, a finger amputation, and some severe head injuries that had not been diverted to other hospitals, and you were back in the swamp. The influx never seemed to end and it made you want to beg for the sweet relief of the Pediatric ICU.

By the time you were back upstairs rounding out your shift, you were exhausted. Caffeine did little to pick you up and you wondered how Frank had been able to do that every day. Especially as a resident working extra hours.

He found you in the parking garage, lips in a smirk like he knew something you didn’t. And it was in the expression in his eyes that you found you were craving something equally salty and sweet.

Good thing Frank was both.

Frank’s lips were on you before you were even through the threshold of your apartment, hot, hungry and wanting. It was easy to fall into him, hands going into his hair while he helped you discard your scrub bottoms.

He had you against the wall beside the door, hands exploring, though as you bit his lip, he slowed down. Fevered kisses turned languid, beginning to take his time, which was a change of pace for him.

“You wanted to shower?” He breathed against your lips, his blue eyes piercing into you and making your stomach warm.

“The amount of shower injuries you must’ve seen surely should deter you, no?”

He smirked, “You’re no inexperienced rider, and I’m a professional.”

A brow quirked at his confidence, but it buzzed in your chest, “Oh, so you’re a professional now, prettyboy?”

“Oh, you think I’m pretty?”

You barked out a laugh, grabbing hold of his scrub top and pulling him to your bathroom. Clothes were discarded on the way, and something settled when the warm water hit your skin. Soft and unspoken, but known and quiet.

He held you close, arms wrapped around you in what felt like a tender moment. After such a long day, it was nice. His hand on your cheek, dragging his tongue along your lower lip before slipping inside your mouth.

You hummed when his other hand slipped between your legs, working slow circles on your clit. Your heart picked up and you hooked a leg around his hips, steadying your weight on him. He accepted the invitation, pushing you up against the tiled wall.

Heat was licking up your stomach before he was even inside you, growing buzzed on his mouth and the feeling of his hands on your body.

He kissed along your cheekbone, whispering in your ear, “You want me, sweetheart? Hmm, here?”

His fingers moved to your opening, teasing the entrance.

You moaned, gripping onto his shoulders. You attempted to move your hips, trying to gain more friction, “Fuck, Frank, please.”

You felt his smirk and he moved his head to look at you again, his eyes holding you steady. He trailed his hand along the thigh hooked around his hip, tugging it up a bit higher to allow him access. He braced one hand against the wall and moved just enough to line himself up, thrusting just enough to gain entry.

A low groan exited his throat, and you clenched around him. He didn’t move, just pulled your body closer, kissing along your jaw. You held onto him, enjoying the languid moment, relishing just how close you felt to him like that. Not just physically, but in a way that made your heart ache.

You kissed his shoulder and up his neck, adjusting your hips to take him deeper. He moaned and rested his forehead against yours, before he started moving — keeping his pace slow and deliberate.

You came undone wrapped around him, and he held you through it, never letting up or changing his pace. No words needed to be exchanged, just the soft moans and his low grunts. When his hips stuttered with his own release, he panted into your neck, still not letting go of you.

He swallowed and pulled back, eyes flickering across your face before a soft smile graced his lips.

“So you think I’m pretty?”

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that man is so pretty🥺

my requests are currently closed.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

SYMPTOMS OF YOU | psh

600 followers special!

pairing:doctor!sunghoon x patient!reader

synopsis: When a clumsy act of heroism lands Y/N in the ER, she doesn’t expect to fall—literally and emotionally—for the handsome Dr. Park Sunghoon. What begins with one injury turns into flirty check-ups, midnight snacks, and unexpected visits. Somewhere between planned accidents and shared coffee, a soft, slow-burning romance begins to bloom—proving some symptoms are only cured by love.

The baby stroller rolled like it had a vendetta.

You didn’t know how or why,one second you were exiting the grocery store with your snacks and sanity intact, and the next, you saw it. A rogue stroller speeding down the sloped parking lot, gaining momentum as it charged toward oncoming traffic.

There was no baby inside, thank God, but still. The thought of it smashing into a car or someone else sent your instincts into overdrive.

You dropped your shopping bag without a second thought and sprinted after it.

Your ankle did not approve of this decision.

You made the save, barely. You managed to intercept the stroller before it reached the road, but your foot twisted on the uneven pavement. A sharp, nauseating pain shot up your leg as you crumpled to the ground with a dramatic yelp.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?!” someone shouted.

No. No, you were not okay.

You weren’t dying, but lying on your back in a parking lot, cradling your throbbing ankle while your chips rolled away into the distance, you did feel a little pathetic.

Which is how you ended up here, sitting in the emergency room of a general hospital, your foot elevated, your ego bruised, and your snack plans obliterated.

And then, as if someone upstairs decided to throw you a bone for your noble sacrifice, he walked in.

“Ms.L/N?” a smooth voice asked.

You looked up from your mildly tear-streaked haze.

And forgot how to breathe.

Towering in the doorway stood a man who looked like he had no business working in a hospital unless it was on the cover of a magazine. Dark, soft hair fell perfectly over his forehead. He wore navy scrubs that fit far too well for your sanity and had a stethoscope slung casually around his neck. His face was both beautiful and serious, like he’d been born to be in a drama where he saves lives and hearts at the same time.

You blinked dumbly. “Uh… y-yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Park Sunghoon. I’ll be treating you today.” He glanced at your chart, then at your swollen ankle. “Oof. That doesn’t look too fun.”

“I like to make an entrance,” you joked weakly, trying not to wince as he gently touched the injured area.

His eyes flicked up to yours, and you swore you saw a hint of amusement. “What happened?”

You told him the story, the rogue stroller, your heroic dash, the betrayal of your ankle. He listened, nodding occasionally, lips twitching in barely-contained amusement.

“You saved an empty stroller?” he asked after a beat.

“It could’ve had a baby!” you defended. “It’s the thought that counts!”

That made him laugh. A soft, low chuckle that sent warm little fizzles down your spine.

“Well, hero,” he said, reaching for his tablet, “you’ve got a hairline fracture. Nothing too serious, but we’re going to keep you overnight for observation and pain management.”

“Overnight?” you echoed, startled.

He nodded. “Just a precaution. We’ll get you a boot and some ice, and I’ll swing by later to check in, alright?”

You tried to act cool. Normal. Not like your body was actively combusting.

“Thanks, Doctor.”

“Call me Sunghoon,” he said with a soft smile. “I’m the only Park on call tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you wondering if the throbbing in your chest was worse than the pain in your ankle.

You were supposed to leave the next morning.

Just one night under observation, a brace for your semi-broken ankle, and you’d be back home with your pillows and your half-watched dramas.

But apparently, your ankle had other plans. By the time the nurse came back to check your vitals in the morning, your foot had gone from “mildly annoyed” to “dramatic and swollen.” Sunghoon reviewed your case again, brows furrowed, then gave you a sheepish but sincere look.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, hands tucked into his coat pockets, “but looks like you’ll be staying a bit longer.”

“How long is a bit?”

“A few more days. Maybe the week. Just to make sure you don’t break it again chasing airborne shopping carts.”

You groaned and flopped back on the pillows.

He gave you a crooked smile. “I promise to make the food almost tolerable while you’re here.”

You peeked up at him. “Are you allowed to offer bribes?”

He leaned closer, voice lowering slightly. “Only to my favorite patient.”

That was the first time he made your heart trip harder than your ankle.

The days passed slowly, but they weren’t boring. Not with Sunghoon visiting you regularly.

It became a routine. He always came in right after morning rounds, clipboard in hand, coffee in the other. You got used to the way he tapped his pen against the paper when he was reading your vitals. The way his voice softened when he asked how you were feeling. The way he always gave a quick smile at the end of each check-up, even when he was clearly exhausted.

He was calm. Steady. But not cold—there was a warmth tucked under that smooth professionalism, like he was always one sarcastic comment away from teasing you.

Sometimes, he gave in.

“Still alive?” he’d say when he walked in.

“Barely. Your jello tried to kill me again.”

“Ruthless. I’ll have a word with the kitchen.”

On day three, you were watching a cooking show on the tiny hospital TV when he walked in and paused mid-step.

“Is that... a flaming baked Alaska?”

You grinned. “You know it?”

“I’ve failed to make it twice.”

You scooted over on the bed slightly. “Wanna sit and learn from the pros?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then walked over and leaned against the side table instead. “If my boss finds out I’m watching baking shows with patients, I’ll get roasted harder than that meringue.”

“You mean you’re not always this charmingly unprofessional?”

He laughed—soft and real. “Only with special cases.”

—

Your favorite moments, though, were the midnight ones.

It started accidentally.

One night, around 2 a.m., you couldn’t sleep. Between the aching foot, the stiff pillows, and the weird smell of hospital bleach, you gave up. You carefully slid out of bed, crutches in hand, and made your slow way down the hallway to the vending machines.

You stood there debating between cookies and chips when a voice cut through the quiet:

“What are you doing out of bed?”

You spun so fast your crutches wobbled.

Sunghoon stood a few steps away, looking like a half-sleeping model—messy hair, coffee cup in hand, coat slung over his arm.

“Uh,” you blurted, caught. “I… I was just stretching?”

He gave you a look.

You sighed. “Okay, I was getting snacks.”

“Ah,” he said, stepping closer to the machine. “A woman of culture.”

You watched as he pressed a few buttons and retrieved a pack of peanut butter cookies. Then, with a soft smile, he handed them to you.

“They’re better than the hospital pudding. Trust me.”

You stared at the cookies, stunned. “I didn’t peg you for a vending machine connoisseur.”

“Oh, I’m a man of many talents,” he said, sipping his coffee. “And cookie wisdom is one of them.”

That night, you sat side-by-side on a bench in the hallway, quietly eating snacks under the dull hospital lights. You talked about random things—horrible date stories, the most absurd ER injuries he’s seen (“a man once tried to wax his legs with candle wax… while drunk”), your fear of geese, his inability to whistle.

When he got paged, he stood, gave you a nod, and said, “Same time tomorrow?”

You grinned. “Only if you bring better snacks.”

—

And he did.

Over the next few nights, it became a pattern. You’d sneak out—quietly, always watching out for the night nurse—and you’d find him already there, waiting near the vending machine or sitting on the bench with his tie slightly loosened.

One night, as you talked about favorite movies, he leaned back and looked at you sideways.

“You know,” he said, “you’re braver than most people.”

You blinked. “Because I like horror movies?”

“No,” he said, “because you threw yourself into traffic for a stroller. Even an empty one.”

You flushed. “That was dumb, honestly.”

He tilted his head. “It was impulsive. But good people do dumb things sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Was that your way of saying I’m a good person?” you teased gently.

His lips twitched. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

On the fifth night, he walked in during your nap.

You were curled on your side, blanket tucked up to your chin. He entered quietly, looked at your chart, and checked the monitor. Then—thinking you were still asleep—he brushed a hand down the side rail and whispered with a soft chuckle:

“You’re seriously too cute for your own good.”

Your eyes snapped open—but you kept them shut. Barely breathing.

You heard him step back, heard the quiet rustle of his coat, and then the door click softly behind him.

You grinned into your pillow for twenty minutes straight.

Leaving the hospital felt… wrong.

Your ankle was better. Not perfect, but healed enough to survive without nightly cookie rendezvous or soft-eyed doctors checking your pulse like they cared more than they let on. The nurse gave you a cheery goodbye, and Sunghoon—cool and professional till the very end—stood at your door with your discharge papers.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re officially free.”

You took the folder from his hands, trying not to let your smile falter. “Freedom tastes suspiciously like sadness.”

He chuckled, eyes scanning your face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were going to miss this place.”

“I’m going to miss snacks at 2 a.m. and cookie confessions.”

A glint sparked in his gaze. “You say that like you didn’t just come here for me.”

You froze. Then burst into a laugh. “Cocky, Dr. Park.”

“Confident,” he corrected, and that stupid, beautiful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “But hey—don’t break any more bones to see me, alright? There are easier ways.”

“Like what?”

His voice dropped just a little. “You could just… visit.”

Your heart did a weird little stutter. “Noted.”

But the moment you stepped outside the building, real life rushed back in—loud, busy, filled with people who weren’t Park Sunghoon. The city buzzed with a rhythm you didn’t want to return to. And by the time you got home, all you could think about was his voice, his smile, the way he leaned against the vending machine like it was a lounge chair meant only for two.

You lasted four days.

Four. Long. Torturous days.

And then you snapped.

Your first plan was harmless: stub your toe on purpose.

You spent ten minutes mentally preparing, then bumped it against your kitchen table. Mild pain. No bruise. Not enough. You tried again. Harder. It swelled a little—enough to limp convincingly—but the guilt was louder than the ache.

Still, you went.

The hospital lobby felt like enemy territory and home all at once. You limped in dramatically, rehearsing your lines. “I’m not sure if it’s broken,” you told the nurse at the ER check-in. “I slammed it on something hard, and now it’s hard to walk.”

Within twenty minutes, you were in a room.

Within twenty-five, he was there.

Dr. Park Sunghoon entered with a slow blink and a lifted brow.

“I told you not to break anything.”

“I didn’t,” you said sweetly. “Just bruised it. Mildly. Accidentally.”

He narrowed his eyes.

You gave your best innocent smile. “Are you accusing me of doing this just to see you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re thinking it.”

He sighed and knelt down to check your foot, the back of his hand brushing your skin. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled.

He looked up. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

That incident ended with a mild toe wrap and a warning: “Next time, just visit like a normal person. You don’t have to fake an injury to see me.”

You promised you wouldn’t.

And you meant it.

Until you didn’t.

The second injury was supposed to be even less dramatic. You “accidentally” scraped your elbow on a rough door frame. Just a scratch, barely worth a bandage. But you showed up again anyway, cheeks flushed, proudly displaying your battle wound like a badge of affection.

He sighed the entire time he wrapped the gauze around your elbow, clearly trying to look stern and professional, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the way they kept twitching upward.

“Don’t say it,” you muttered.

“I haven’t said anything,” he replied, taping the end of the bandage. “Yet.”

“You’re thinking it again.”

“I’m always thinking it when it comes to you.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

He straightened up, clicking the cap back onto the ointment tube. “It means you’re the most stubborn patient I’ve ever had—and possibly the most charming.” His voice lowered slightly, teasing. “Even if you fake your injuries to come see me.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. “…You really are cocky.”

He laughed. “Alright,” he said, tugging off his gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Since you’re clearly going to find more creative ways to end up in my ER, I might as well save us both the trouble.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, and grabbed the corner of the gauze packet. He scribbled something quickly, then folded it in half and handed it to you.

“What’s this?”

“My number,” he said. “Use it the next time you want to see me.”

You blinked, startled. “You’re giving me your number?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you not want it?”

“No! I mean—yes. I mean—” You gave up and smiled like an idiot. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and his voice turned almost boyish. “Now go before I change my mind and file this as an official nuisance case.”

You snorted. “Is that your way of flirting?”

“It’s a very niche love language,” he deadpanned.

Later That Night…

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over the number.

And then you typed:

Y/N: this is the burrito girl.

Y/N: just making sure the number isn’t secretly a prank hotline.

Seconds later, a reply.

Dr. Park: depends. do you need emotional support or a burrito wrap?

Y/N: both.

Dr. Park: lucky for you, i’m trained in both areas.

And just like that, the texting began.

He wasn’t always fast, but he always replied. Sometimes with dry humor. Sometimes with sleepy emojis sent between rounds. Sometimes with little updates:

Dr. Park: just had a 5hr surgery. caffeine is my blood type now.

Dr. Park: saw a kid eat a crayon today. that was the highlight.

Dr. Park: also. been thinking about you.

Dr. Park: not in a weird way.

Dr. Park: okay maybe a little.

You replied with your own updates:

Y/N: almost broke my other ankle tripping over my cat today. thought you’d be proud.

Y/N: saw a donut that reminded me of you. sweet and dangerous.

Y/N: not gonna lie. i kinda miss the vending machine.

He started sending photos too—his office coffee, a crooked name tag, a sleepy selfie with his face half covered by a mask.

And one day, just a few days later, he texted:

Dr. Park: you don’t have to injure yourself, you know.

Dr. Park: if you ever feel like it… you could just drop by.

The Honest Visit

It took courage to walk into that hospital with no bruises or sprains or fractures. Just nerves.

You wore your cutest non-patient outfit and held a coffee cup like it was a peace offering. When you showed up at the nurses’ station, one of them lit up immediately.

“Oh—you’re her.”

You blinked. “Her?”

“Dr. Park talks about you more than he talks about patient charts.”

You tried not to melt. “Is he here?”

“He’s on rounds, but I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

Fifteen minutes passed before you heard his voice.

“I thought I told you—no more injuries.”

You turned, already smiling.

He was wearing his white coat, stethoscope slung around his neck, hair slightly tousled from a long day. His eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

“No injuries,” you said, lifting the coffee cup. “Just visiting.”

He looked genuinely surprised—and so genuinely happy.

“Wow,” he said. “You actually came.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.”

You grinned. “Well, I’m full of surprises.”

He stepped closer, gaze flicking to your hands. “Did you… bring that for me?”

“Of course. I bribed a barista to write ‘World’s Hottest Doctor’ on the cup.”

He chuckled and took it, his fingers brushing yours. “You’re something else.”

You sat together for twenty minutes in the break lounge—him sipping coffee, you sharing a muffin you’d smuggled in. It was quiet and sweet and real, and for the first time, you weren’t just some girl who faked injuries.

You were someone he wanted to see.

Sunghoon had gotten a little too comfortable crashing at your place. What started as a once-in-a-while couch visit after his hellish 12-hour shifts became more frequent. He always texted first—“You up? Don’t feel like driving home.”—and you always answered with “Door’s open. Blanket’s clean.”

The first two nights, he knocked out on the couch within minutes, still in scrubs, his phone falling to the floor as he curled up like a cat. The third night, though, you woke up sometime around 3 a.m. to the sound of shuffling.

Your bedroom door creaked open, followed by a low, sheepish voice.

“…Y/N?”

You squinted through the dark. “Sunghoon?”

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes barely adjusting. “The couch is killing my spine. Can I—?”

Without another word, you scooted over in bed, lifting the blanket in silent invitation.

He hesitated, then smiled softly. “Respectfully… I love you.”

“You’re not even fully conscious,” you mumbled, rolling over. “Just get in.”

He climbed in beside you—fully clothed, smelling like hand sanitizer and fatigue. The bed dipped slightly as he settled on his side, keeping a polite distance, until your sleepy voice broke the silence again.

“You don’t have to act like I’m made of glass.”

That was all it took for him to scoot closer, just enough for your back to brush against his chest. You fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the occasional murmur of his dreams.

After that, the couch was history.

⸻

It had been a good few weeks—injury-free and drama-free. You had your routines: texts at odd hours, his hoodie now permanently yours, regular lunch drop-offs at the hospital, and sleepy nights curled up on your bed, whispering until one of you drifted off.

So, of course, that peace didn’t last.

You were crossing the street one evening with a bag of takeout—your usual hospital dinner delivery—when a motorbike came out of nowhere. You managed to jump back, but the bag slipped from your hands, and in a graceless scramble, you hit the pavement hard.

Your elbow got the worst of it—scraped raw—and your knee throbbed instantly. Some kind strangers helped you up, and a nurse passing by recognized you. The ER wasn’t far. You figured you’d stop in, just to be safe.

But you knew one thing for sure:

Sunghoon was going to kill you.

⸻

He was in the middle of his evening rounds when a nurse sprinted toward him.

“Dr. Park—you should come to the ER.”

He barely looked up. “Why?”

The nurse panted. “It’s Y/N.”

His heart stopped.

In an instant, he abandoned the clipboard, sprinting down the hall like his life depended on it.

By the time he found your room, he was breathless, coat flapping behind him, eyes wild.

“Y/N!”

You turned your head. “Oh—hey, Hoon.”

You were propped on a bed, bandages already on your arm and a cold pack on your knee. Eating an apple like nothing happened.

He looked at you, chest heaving. “Are you okay?”

“Better now,” you said, smiling gently. “It’s really not that bad.”

He strode over, cupping your face with both hands, scanning for injuries like he didn’t believe you.

“I thought it was something serious. They said it was a street accident, and I—God, I thought you were—” His voice cracked. “You said you wouldn’t plan an injury again.”

“I didn’t,” you said. “This one was real. I was just… unlucky.”

He let out a shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I swear,” he whispered. “One more scare like this, and I’ll admit myself into psych.”

You smiled, placing your hand over his heart. “You care that much, huh?”

He looked at you then—really looked.

“I care more than I wanted to.”

⸻

Later that night, after you’d been properly checked, bandaged, and cleared to go home, he insisted on walking you back to your apartment.

Inside, you curled up on your couch while he poured water into a glass with the familiarity of someone who now knew your kitchen layout.

You watched him quietly, heart pounding.

“Sunghoon?”

He turned, looking exhausted but beautiful.

“Yeah?”

You swallowed. “I know we joke a lot. But… I’ve really grown to like you. Like, a lot. I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t miss you when we don’t talk. Or that your voice doesn’t make me feel better after a bad day.”

He set the glass down and crossed the room slowly.

“I’m glad you said that,” he said, settling beside you. “Because I’ve been scared to say it first. But I feel the same.”

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, gaze soft. “You’ve become the best part of my day, Y/N. Even when you’re uninjured.”

You laughed tearfully. “Guess that means I don’t need to throw myself into traffic anymore.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You really don’t.”

He leaned in then, gently, and kissed you.

No rush. No hospital beeps. Just quiet warmth and a soft press of lips that said everything he’d held in until now.

—

Two weeks later, with your knee fully healed and your elbow down to a pink scar, Sunghoon showed up at your door—button-down shirt, flowers in hand, and a giddy, nervous smile.

“You look handsome,” you said, accepting the bouquet.

“You look like trouble,” he grinned.

He took you to a rooftop restaurant, just the two of you under soft lights and city breeze. You laughed over shared dishes, teased him about his flirty doctor voice, and he listened to your stories like you were the only voice in the world.

After dessert, he reached across the table, brushing your hand.

“Can I take you on many more dates?” he asked, genuine and hopeful.

“You better,” you said. “You still owe me dinner for the spilled takeout.”

He laughed and leaned in, kissing you slow and soft—just like that first one, but deeper now. Certain.

The couch stayed empty after that.

Your bed became his default crash spot, though he started staying awake long enough to cuddle and steal a few kisses before passing out.

You brought dinner to the hospital every few nights. Nurses winked when they saw you walk in with two coffees and a thermos of stew.

He left his toothbrush at your place.

You kept his name saved in your phone with a heart.

And once, in the middle of the night, while half-asleep and tangled with you in bed, he murmured, “Still the best emergency that’s ever walked into my ER.”

You kissed his forehead, whispering, “Still the best reason I’ve ever risked a sprained ankle.”

And this time—thankfully—no injuries were involved.

Bonus Scene: Doctor Down

It started with a sneeze.

Just one, muffled and polite, during your late-night call. You didn’t think much of it—until the fifth one happened.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing your teeth over FaceTime.

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon said, blinking at the screen. His nose was pink, his voice a little hoarse, and his eyes—normally sharp—were glazed and half-lidded. “Probably just allergies.”

You stared at him.

“Hoon.”

He sniffled.

“Hoon.”

“…Maybe a cold.”

⸻

By the time you reached his place the next morning, it was worse. He opened the door wrapped in a blanket like a sad, oversized burrito. His hair was floppy and unstyled, his voice all raspy grumbles.

“I’m dying.”

“You have a cold.”

“A severe cold. Near-death.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He blinked slowly. “You still like me when I’m like this?”

You held up the tote bag filled with supplies: porridge, honey lemon tea, meds, menthol rub, tissues, and a forehead thermometer”

“Guess you’ll have to see.”

⸻

He crashed on the couch while you set things up. When you returned with tea and a warm compress, he blinked up at you with the most pitiful expression you’d ever seen.

“My head hurts.”

“I know, baby,” you cooed, setting the tea down and sitting beside him. “Tilt your head. I’ll put the compress on.”

He obeyed, resting against your thigh like a cat. “If I die, delete my browsing history.”

“You searched ‘how to tell if I have the plague’ at 3 a.m.,” you said with a grin, adjusting the compress.

“I was being proactive.”

“You were being dramatic.”

He sniffled.

You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. “Still love you, though.”

⸻

He instructed you like a needy patient from a rom-com.

“Y/N, two teaspoons, not one. Don’t underdose me.”

“Can you fluff the pillow again? It lost its bounce.”

“Why does tea taste like wet socks today?”

“Can you rub my chest—no, not like that, like with the vapor rub!”

But then, between the silly requests and pouty whines, there were soft little moments:

Him curling into your lap without a word.

Him falling asleep mid-sentence, hand resting over yours.

Him muttering, “You’re the best medicine,” against your hoodie while you tucked the blanket higher on his chest.

⸻

That night, you stayed over—because he refused to let you leave, even in his sick state.

“I need to see you when I wake up,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, already half asleep as you slid into bed beside him.

“You will,” you promised, brushing the hair from his face.

And sure enough, the next morning, when he blinked awake with a scratchy throat and puffy eyes, you were still there—smiling sleepily beside him.

“Morning, Dr. Drama,” you teased.

“Morning, Nurse Pretty,” he rasped, curling into you again.

No vitals needed. Just soft touches, lazy cuddles, and the comfort of love—stronger than any medicine.

tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

taglist: @papichulomacy @Iveegsoi @howdyflwr @ueilux @weyukinluv @raavenarmy-blog @doririsstuff @vrusha01 @sievenderz @moon368 @selenaxnguyen-blog@urmomssneakylink @chvconn3 @k1ttyjwon @luimiinaa @stwrlightt @maewphoria @cyjhhyj @bussolares

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket

[bullet-prooflove]

The Morgue Thing: Dennis Whitaker x Reader (feat: Donnie Donahue)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @sargeant-sad-eyes

Companion piece to:

Peppermint - The taste of peppermint will always have a special place in Dennis's heart.

It’s been three days and Dennis still doesn’t know your first name.

When you’d handed him back his phone he’d discovered you’d saved your number under the peppermint candy emoji. He has no idea if that’s some sort of clue or if it’s because he told you he liked the taste of your lipbalm on his mouth.

When he asks around it turns out everyone is just as clueless as he is.

“We call her Lis,” Donnie tells him as Dennis helps him turn over South 17. “I’m not sure if it’s because her last name is Lisbon or if it’s her first name. We don’t get a lot of time to chat when she’s up here because it’s all about getting the body squared away so it doesn’t freak out the natives.”

Dennis nods his head in understanding as he deposits the bloody cotton pads into the yellow hazardous waste bin.

“She’s good at what she does I’ll give her that.” Donnie says as he smooths his palm over the sheets of the bed he’s making up. “A friend of mine had to identify her sister after a car accident and sung her praises, she was very kind with the family, conscientious. Some of the shit they see down there, it’s alot more messed up than what we get up here.”

“How can that be true?” Dennis asks, his thoughts returning to the insanity of Pittfest. That had been the worst day of his life and Dennis, he’d had some shitty days before moving in with Santos.

“Think of all the fucked up stuff we see in here, the domestic abuse cases, the stuff with kids, fires. They get the end result of that, the stuff that happens when the ambulance is too late or no one cared enough to call one. It’s why most morgue assistants flame out after a year, the job is that brutal.” Donnie says shaking his head as he ticks off the checklist on the tablet, reopening the bay for use. “She’s been here five years, the girl must have the heart of a lion.”

Dennis is still thinking about that when he meets you outside on the steps after his shift. It’s just past seven and you’re leaning against the wall that lines the hospital, your hair falling loose across your features the same way it did that night. He wants to reach out and push it back behind your ear but he doesn’t because it feels inadequate without your name, like it lacks meaning.

“I need to tell you something.” He says as he takes up residence beside you.

You sigh and the sound makes his chest tight as you thrust your hands into the pockets of your denim jacket.

“It’s the morgue thing isn’t it?” You say, staring out into the park across the street. “Me being around the deceased, you can’t handle it.”

“What?” He says, shaking his head vehemently. “That’s… Has that been a problem before?”

You tilt your face towards him, the edges of your mouth tipping up into a sad smile as your eyes turn distant.

“You’re a great guy, you don’t have to pretend.” You say pushing off the wall and stepping into the street. “I’ll see you around Whitaker.”

It’s the use of his last name that snaps him into action, the detachment behind it. His hand catches your arm, drawing you back to him and you look at him with such surprise in your features that he panics.

“It’s not the dead people.” He says abruptly. “I just don’t know your name! We’ve been texting for three days and I was too embarrassed to tell you. I know you told me back at the karaoke thing but Santos was singing so loud and so badly-”

You laugh then and that sound, it lights up his insides like sunshine after a long, cold winter of rain.

“It’s Lola.” You tell him. “Lola Lisbon.”

Love Dennis? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[lucky13cat]

Snippet of my latest Kingdon WIP:

Mel's date ends up with her accompanying said date to the Pitt. No one is pleased with this course of events. Least of all Dr. Langdon.

Mel was beginning to deeply regret agreeing to this date.

Not that it was bad or that her date was a jerk. Neither were really true. The date, meeting up at an arcade bar for drinks and friendly competition, had been nice in the way that she hadn't hated it. It was her second time going out like this with this particular person, and the first time had gone well enough that saying yes to a second had made sense. A simple decision really. Becca had been happy to hear about it though she had smiled and asked if she'd told Dr. Langdon about it.

Which Mel hadn't. Frank was her friend, and she really loved working with him. Talking about her dating life felt treacherous, especially considering his very recent divorce and her own feelings about him she chose not to acknowledge. Frank was her friend. She'd tell him if the second date led to a third. Maybe.

The second time was shaping up to be just like the first date, good with no reason to turn down another. She'd liked the skeeball machines, and the pretzel she'd ordered had been tasty though she'd not enjoyed her drink, alcohol was hit or miss with her. And Fisher, her date, had been nice and not the least bit offended when she'd demolished him at said skeeball machines and stuck with one drink. Which was... nice.

In truth, the date would have perhaps prompted a third had an unfortunate accident not occured.

Alcohol and throwing games should not be combined. Especially when said alcohol is in glass cups.

Mel doesn't see it happen. She's turned her head to stare at the machine in front of them to see how many points Fisher manages. He's quite bad at skeeball which is probably why in his drawback he'd managed to not only shatter the pint glass of someone behind them but also end up with a shard of glass through his palm.

The one time she doesn't have her emergency kit on her too.

By the time she's managed to convince Fisher not to pull the shard out and stabilize his hand for the inevitable ride to the hospital, someone's called 911. An ambulance rolls up just as she's paying their check.

"You coming?"

Technically, she did not have to get in the ambulance. This was only her second date with Fisher, which usually meant she was free to let him be on his way, but that would mean heading either back into the bar or home. Neither option sounded great, and she'd certainly be wracked with guilt if anything else happened to Fisher. So, with a sigh, she'd pulled herself into the back of the ambulance after Fisher was loaded up.

She'd asked the paramedics to take them to Presby. Both had recognized her from work, which was definitely the reason they'd let her climb in. One of them had shaken their head while the other climbed into the driver's seat.

"Sorry Dr. King, the Pitt's closer."

"Ah," Mel tried very hard not to feel defeated. "Alright then."

She checked her phone. 6:27. Hopefully, everyone from day shift suddenly decided to leave early.

[glambots]

Worst part of working at Fazbear Ent.? Definitely the customer service parts.

Second worst part? Having to clean up after various mysterious "workplace accidents."

[noahtally-famous]

after publishing “hi, im dave”, the urge to write more stuff involving dave and his family (as well as him and noah interactions bc to me they’re family friends) both pre, post, and during tdpi has grabbed ahold of me

[weepingactorsoverpopmusic]

.

[temis-de-leon]

Who's their emergency contact

.

Lucifer: Mammon, his favourite brother and the one he turns to when things get serious. For the sake of his peace and sanity, there are things he'd rather keep secret from Diavolo and just for this reason he can't trust Barbatos either; telling something to the butler would only result in the prince knowing.

Mammon: you, whether you like it or not. Depending on the situation, Lucifer may leave him longer than necessary in the hospital (or wherever he's retained) and his younger brothers tend to make fun of him most of the time. If he has to face someone's wrath, please let it be yours.

Levi: Lucifer, the default option. As much as he loves and trusts you, he needs to be realistic: there are some things you cannot handle. Besides that, of course, his eldest brother is responsible when making decisions, especially if his family is involved.

Satan: Lucifer and he hates it. It used to be Asmo until he had an accident with a spell and ended up in serious trouble. When Asmo arrived he cried so hard out of worry that they had to call Lucifer, so he reluctantly changed it to save some time in the future.

Asmo: you. If something happens to him, the first person he wants to see when he wakes up is you and, if it were really serious anyway, you wouldn't go alone to get him. Plus, he'd also die of happiness under your care since he'd be receiving all your attention!

Beel: Lucifer, who he trusts the most in stressful situations. He loves Belphie with all his heart, yes, but he can't trust his twin to be awake at random times; emergencies can happen at any hour, after all.

Belphie: Beel. Does he have to explain? Besides you, there's no one in the family he trusts more than him, so it just makes sense.

You: Lucifer. Mammon tried to negotiate. He tried.

.

.

Main Masterlist

This is so damn stupid. I promise I'm writing my normal posts, but I was watching Grey's Anatomy and it just happened. If it looks wonky, it's because I'm sleepy

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion

[goosewriting]

The Aftermath

summary: reader visits Joaquín at the hospital as he wakes up from surgery.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: established relationship, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, mention and description of injuries and medical procedures, mention of accident and explosions, brief mentions of PTSD from events in Infinity War/Endgame, self-doubts and guilt

word count: 2.2k

A/N: i started writing this the moment i came home from watching BNW. can't believe it took me this long to write for him,, he's been rotating in my mind ever since tfantws <3 we really need more fics for joaquín, he’s so blorbo coded like cmon!! 🥹🥹 if you have any recs pls send them my way!

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Sitting by Joaquín’s hospital bed, you bring your hands to your face as you remember his accident on the Indian Ocean. You had watched the broadcast in horror, your heart in your throat as his figure fell from the sky into the open water. 

At that moment, you couldn’t help but remember the video from all those years ago, where you saw how Rhodey had fallen as well, like a rock, everyone watching, unable to do anything to stop him. Just like War Machine, Joaquín had turned uncontrollably on his descent, one of his wings ripped from the suit by the missile exploding right in his face.

You’ve been in the Avengers’ orbit since a little before the battle against Thanos on Wakanda, where you had also fought with everyone, but then got blipped. The transition back to society with a gap of 5 years had been very hard on you, and while you stayed in contact with everyone who remained, helping out whenever you could, you didn’t really have it in you to go back out to the battlefield. Even after all this time, you still have nightmares about the snap and the Battle for Earth. 

Bringing your hands back into your lap, you let out a trembling breath, clinging onto the constant soft beeping of the machinery to tether yourself to reality and not fall down a spiral of despair. Every time your eyes roam over Joaquín’s injuries, you close your eyes, pressing the base of your hands over them, then open them again. Your sight is momentarily sprinkled with dots, and as it clears, you hope for everything to have been a horrible nightmare. But once your view clears up, he’s still there. Unconscious. Hurt.

The surgery he’d been in last night had felt like it was never going to end. Still, you had stayed the whole time, and once he got out, you stayed at his side. 

It’s been several hours since Joaquín got wheeled into his room, the head medic saying he was still unconscious but stable. You shift in the armchair by the bed where you sit. One of the nurses brought you something to eat earlier since you refused to leave, the wrapper of your sandwich still in your hands as your eyes start feeling heavier and heavier, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight the welcome embrace of sleep, slowly spreading through your limbs. You’ve almost completely dozed off when you hear a groan, and immediately your grogginess dissipates. You straighten up in your seat, the wrapper falling to the floor as you scoot closer to the bed, tears stinging behind your eyes. How you still have tears left, you have no idea, given how much you’ve cried in the past hours, terrified of losing the love of your life. 

Joaquín blinks several times, scrunching his face, eyes trying to adapt to the light. He lifts his good arm, looking at the tubes attached to it, and his gaze roams the room and down his body, face contorting in pain lightly. Then his eyes land on you, and his face immediately softens.

“Hey, there,” he croaks out. 

“You’re awake,” you whisper, holding his hand in your trembling ones. “I was scared you wouldn’t.”

“Pfft, it’ll take more than a meagre explosion to defeat the Falcon,” he retorts with a pained smile.

Normally you’d laugh at his jokes, enjoying his silly side, but right now you have no humour left in you. Another wave of tears rolls down your cheeks, and his smile vanishes.

“Please don’t joke about that,” you plead, giving his hand a squeeze. “You were hit by a freaking missile. From a fighter jet. While up in the air between two armies about to start a war with each other.”

“Well, if you put it like that…” He sighs. 

There’s a moment of silence where you again study his bruised face, your gaze landing on the massive burn covering his whole shoulder, streaks of red raw skin visible on his jaw and throat. Your brows furrow in frustration.

“I should have been there,” you mumble, angry at yourself for letting this happen.

“What?” he asks, craning his neck to fully look at you.

“I should have gone with you,” you say, bringing your eyes to look up at him. “Then I could have helped and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Joaquín exhales through his nose in disbelief.

“We were in the air, and I went head to head with the missile even after Sam told me to back off,” he retorts, shaking his head. “There was nothing you could have done.”

His tone isn’t scolding; he’s telling the truth and you know it. Still, you can’t help but feel like the outcome could have been different, if you had just been better, braver. You try to choke back a sob, unsuccessful, and his hold tightens around your hand.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” He speaks your name softly. “This isn’t on you. Please don’t cry.”

You grimace, biting the inside of your cheek.

“For a moment I thought you died, Joaquín. I was so scared,” you say with a shaky breath, bringing his hand to your face, and he cups your cheek. You place your hand over his, holding onto it and leaning into his touch like it was the last time you could hold him like this.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Your heart shatters at the thought that even after getting hurt, after getting blown up, he’s the one apologising to you. He’s about to add something when the door opens and a nurse comes in. You back off a bit and hastily wipe your face with the back of your sleeves as she does some check-ups, both on Joaquín and the machines, taking some notes on her clipboard. She then takes one of the tubes attached to his arm, and places a syringe at the other end.

“What’s that?” you ask, suspicious. She gives you a quick look with a raised brow, but when she sees the state you’re in, her face relaxes again.

“Painkillers and antibiotics. He’ll need both of them,” she explains.

It doesn’t take long for the fluids to reach Joaquín’s blood system, and he visibly relaxes against the pillows and closes his eyes.

“Oh, hell yeah. That’s the good stuff,” he sighs, and the nurse chuckles softly. You still can’t get yourself to let go of your worry. Once she’s done with everything, she leaves the way she came, exiting the room. As the door closes behind her, your eyes land on the wrapper on the floor, and you pick it up with a sniffle, crumpling it up further.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?” you ask as you throw the trash into the bin from where you sit, to your surprise making the shot. He doesn't answer, eyes still closed.

“Joaquín?” you ask softly, not wanting to wake him in case he fell asleep again.

“Huh? Wha?” His eyes open and he turns to look at you, his face visibly relaxed now.

“You okay?” You take his hand again, and he gives you a squeeze.

“Hmm-mm,” he hums with a nod, blinking slowly as he tries to focus on your face. “I just think I’m… kinda high right now.”

That’s when you finally break, unable to hold back an endeared chuckle, shaking your head. Joaquín’s eyes are filled with warmth and then concern as they land on your face, brows furrowing as if he just noticed something. His hand comes up to wipe away the remaining streak of tears. He also playfully pinches your cheek for good measure, eliciting another smile of yours.

“That’s better,” he concludes, a smile spreading on his face as well. The smile that could light up any room he’s in, in your humble opinion. 

You prop your elbow onto the edge of the bed, head in your hands as you look at him, and he looks back at you with a silly grin. The beeps on the machine speed up a bit, and you look up at the screen, then back at him with a brow raised in amusement.

“Usually you can’t tell because I’m smooth as hell, but it’s true,” he notes, like a huge secret was just uncovered. “You still make my heart race.”

Heat prickles on your cheeks at his words and you avert your gaze with a snort. As long as your heart is still beating, you think, remembering that they had to resuscitate him after the accident, but you shake those thoughts away, preferring to focus on the fact that he’s still here, alive.

“I know that the moment you’re back on your feet, you’ll be out there again, suited up,” you start after a moment, shooting him a serious look. “So I won’t ask you to stop. But promise me to be more careful next time?”

“Pinky promise.” Joaquín lifts his hand, fingers curled except for his pinky, and you can’t help but chuckle as you mirror his gesture, curling your finger around his. He shakes your hand like that side to side for a bit, then drops it back down onto the bed. A strand of hair falls into his face as he leans back, and you brush it back, caressing over his bruised cheekbone gingerly. 

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks suddenly.

“Hmm.” You look at the timestamp on the muted TV in the corner, currently playing some movie or other. It’s only then that you realise you’ve been intermittently awake for almost two full days now. “Can’t really remember,” you lie.

“You need to rest. You look exhausted,” he remarks, gesturing to himself. “I’m taken care of.”

“No, I’m not leaving you,” you say, putting as much finality into your voice as you can in your state.

He says your name softly. You look away. He sighs.

“Well, if you insist on staying, then at least I can get pampered a bit, yeah?” he starts, and you narrow your eyes at him in feigned suspicion. He asks with a playful pout, “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Hmm?” 

Joaquín turns his head, offering you his cheek. You can’t help but laugh. 

“I thought you were high on painkillers already?”

“Even the best medicine holds nothing against your kisses.”

“Pfft, is that so.” Now it’s your heart’s turn to speed up. You two have been together for a while now, but he still makes you feel warm and fuzzy, and gives you butterflies in your stomach, when he isn’t on the brink of death, at least. “Well, in that case, I better get started on your dose.”

You lean forward, placing a kiss on his cheek, and he hums pleasedly. He doesn’t move, though, clearly waiting for more. You’re more than happy to oblige, placing kiss after kiss on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, being especially careful around his injuries. Finally, you hold his chin to turn his face towards you, and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his lips. It's chaste but sweet, and he smiles into it. When you lean back, his eyes are filled with love, slightly unfocused because of the meds, a goofy grin on his face. As you hold his face, you consider saying something cheesy, hoping he won’t remember it. But before you can speak, there’s a knock at the door, and someone steps in. It’s Sam. He looks surprised to see you.  

“Damn, you’re still here?” he asks with concern, then turns to Joaquín. “How’re you feeling?”

“Splendid, really,” he replies, leaning into your hand still cupping his face.

“He got a decent shot of painkillers,” you explain, looking up at Sam with a tired smile. “He’s high as a kite.”

Sam chuckles, then looks at you worriedly. 

“You need to rest. Both of you.” He places a hand on your shoulder. “Go home, I’ll take it from here.”

You hesitate, looking between the two, and Joaquín nods, his eyes pleading for you to also take care of yourself. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joaquín says, taking your hand from his face and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be here when you come back.”

“Right,” you sigh and rise to your feet with wobbly legs now that the exhaustion is finally kicking in full force, and Sam holds you up when your knees threaten to give in. 

“Whoa there. You need a nap, ASAP.” 

“Yeah, yeah I do,” you say with a sigh, steadying yourself as he lets you go, his hands still hovering over your arms for a moment in case he has to grab you again, but you manage to stand straight. You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, and turn to Joaquín. “I’ll come back this evening, okay? I’ll bring your favourite snacks too. Don’t tell the nurse, though.” You wink at him with a knowing smile.

“You’re the best.”

“No, you are.” You lean over him to kiss him goodbye, whispering ‘I love you’ against his lips, and pecking him once more for good measure. The machine’s beeps speed up again.

“Love you too. See you later.” Joaquín brings his hand up to caress over your cheek one last time, then you leave the room.

Sam is still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at his friend as the beeps slowly start decreasing back to normal.

“Very cute,” he remarks, unable to bite back a teasing smile. 

“Don’t even,” Joaquín says and rolls his eyes playfully, knowing perfectly well that Sam will never let him live that down.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!]

[eupheme]

k02. accidental stim + thigh-riding | just once

frank castle x f!reader

rated e - 3k

tags: hurt/comfort, references to blood/violence, wound-tending, strangers-to-lovers, implied mutual pining, accident stimulation, thigh-riding, oral sex (m rec), reader has hair long enough to tug, swallowing

You know you shouldn’t look for the handsome stranger that shows up, night after night. Should lock your window, forget you saw him. That’s the smart thing to do, after all.

But you think you might like that he needs you. That you can’t stop thinking about him. That you can’t stop wanting more.

It’s interesting how quickly you’ve become used to finding a strange man on your fire escape.

The first time it happened, it had scared you near to death. A dark smudge in the shadows, when you went to close the blinds before bed.

A sharp jab of fear, realizing there was a body propped up against the railing. Phone in hand, fingers hovering on Wade’s contact when you saw the streaks of red against pale skin.

Still not sure how you got him inside. Spent an hour afterwards scrubbing the traces of him from your windowsill. Smeared fingerprints, the scuff of boots against your floor.

Half-conscious. Blood oozing out from a wound at his temple. A clean washcloth from your bathroom pressed to it, as you started to call for help.

The stranger moved then. A broad hand curled around your wrist. Head tipping back, and you could see those brown eyes from beneath the hood.

“No cops.” He croaked, “No hospitals. ‘m fine.”

You had patched him up the best you could. The urge to help outweighing the ringing stranger danger in your head. A little soothed knowing help was next door.

The night spent awake, watching.

He thanked you the next day. Apologized.

It was in the early morning light that you finally got a good look at him, that dark hood pulled back. Handsome face, quiffed hair, pretty lips beneath the curve of his nose.

Broad, when he stands. Slipping back out the way he came. A devil at night, gentleman in the morning - even with his rough edges.

Thought it’d be the last time you saw him.

You were wrong.

That one night turns into another. Something almost like a routine, except for his timing. Twice a week and then nothing for more. Three weekends in a row, and then silence for a month.

On the second night, the stranger tells you his name is Frank.

On another night, some two weeks later, he tells you that your apartment is the only one within two blocks he can reach from the ground. Only stopped because your window was cracked open. Knew you were home.

Could smell the blend of vanilla and sugar from there. Seemed like a safe place to rest, until he could make it back home.

It should deter you.

It doesn’t.

He’s as layered as the clothes he wears. All dark - black field jacket. The splatter of white, some sort of pattern on the shirt beneath another zip-up.

And red.

Always red. Red dripping from his nose. Bruised shadows beneath an eye. Split knuckles, his hand resting against your knee as you yawn - binding them carefully.

Tucked on your couch to sleep a couple hours, gone by the time you’re leaving for work. Midnight breakfasts that always ends in a “thanks, sweetheart” that leaves you pretending that there isn’t a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your chest.

Never tells you what he does. Never lets you in, other than the slip of his last name.

Castle.

It fits him. Something as strong and formidable as he is, with the furrow of his brow. The grit of his jaw, when your needle pierces flesh.

Never complaining. Content to take what you give him. A wary eye when you pick at those layers, a fingernail digging under a chip of paint.

Always seems to be gone longer, after you do.

The last time he was here, you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Waiting for a tap on the glass that didn’t come.

Only for your window to creak open, barely heard under the rumble of the storm overhead. Some time long after midnight, closer to dawn.

You knew it was him, in your sleepy haze. Knew the sound of his boots as well as your own. The soft rasp of your name, as you propped yourself up.

The worry quickly tempered, when he crouched to your level.

“One hell of a storm,” Frank rasped, “Just need a place to wait it out.”

The relief has sleep pulling you back under. A muttered “no boots in bed”, as you yawn, followed by a “or wet clothes.”

You don’t think you would have said it, if you were awake. It felt like a dream - something made up. Wishing he would come back to you and then he was.

A low huff. Layers peeled off, as the mattress dips.

In the morning, he’s gone.

You’d think it was a dream, if your pillow didn’t smell like him. If the bed wasn’t still warm where he lay - if you could shake the feeling of his breath in your ear, an arm slung around your waist in the night.

It had felt like something had changed.

That was, until now.

Now, your brow furrows. Blood beneath your nails from where you helped ease the vest from his chest.

His hand covering yours, stilling the shake as you gripped the straps. Your little huff of relief when it’s only bruises and scrapes that bloom beneath, instead of the scattering of fired bullets.

Now, they rests on your hips, as you stand between his spread thighs. His chest bare under the warm light of your bathroom - mottled in bruises but it doesn’t take away the breadth of him. The etched muscles that bunch and flex beneath your fingertips.

Something you’re achingly aware of. Something you’re desperately trying not to think of, as you dab antiseptic around the edge of an abrasion.

His eyes are fixed on yours, even as you concentrate.

It’s something you discovered about him quickly. Frank doesn’t shy away from eye contact. Content to keep his on you, even as you work. Skin heating from beneath his watch.

Could just be him. His work is something dangerous, he never needs to tell you for you to know that. And from the splinters you’ve pieced together, you don’t see him as a bad guy. Or at least - he doesn’t see himself that way.

But a part of you wonders if he watches because he wants to. Something greedy. Unblinking - taking you in like you wish he would.

“You’re lucky,” You muse, thumb smoothing over the bandage, “Think this is the least banged up you’ve been.”

“Lucky.” He huffs, “Suppose you could say that.”

The roll of medical tape clatters against the sink, before slipping down into the bowl. His fingers biting into your hips as you lean to grab it, shifting into his space.

“Careful.” It’s a low warning, rumbled out, “Makin’ it real hard to keep my hands to myself, sweetheart.”

Only then do you notice how much you’ve leaned into him. Your thigh pinned firmly against his spread one. A hand on his shoulder for balance, your tits pressed against his bare chest.

You shift back, but it only makes his hands grip harder. His eyes dark, under the glow of the bulb above - making you feel like you took a blow, yourself.

“Don’t have to,” You manage, “Keep them to yourself, I mean.”

There’s a sharp, inhaled breath. His eyes flicking between yours, as a mark deepens between his brows.

“Wouldn’t be right.” It’s gritted out, “This is your home-”

Your heart hammers behind your ribs, as the hand at his shoulder slips to his neck, “I know. I-, I wouldn’t let you in if I didn’t-”

“Trust me?” Frank laughs, the sound hollow, “Sweetheart-”

The word dies on his tongue, with the sudden slam of a door in the hall - ringing out like a gunshot. A loud voice followed by the pounding of footsteps up the stairs, as you are suddenly crushed against Frank’s chest.

His palm slipping over your mouth, as he shoots to his feet. Crowding you against the bathroom door, shushing your muffled yelp.

You can feel every inch of him pressed against you. Breath held as he leans into you, a thigh nudged snugly between yours. Hands flattened against his chest. Unyielding, as you give a little shove.

Something hard curving against your hip. A rough sound in his throat when you squirm against him again - the words trapped behind his hand.

“Fucking stop,” He growls in your ear, “Someone is out there-“

Your shove turns soft. Stroking up his chest until you’re touching at his jaw. Angling his face to meet yours.

His eyes are wild, nearly black. Deadly focused - their sharp edge flicking down to yours. A beat as he considers, when you point to your mouth.

“It’s my neighbor,” You manage with a gasp, when his grip loosens, “He tries to see how fast he can run up every single stair. Drives us all crazy.”

He goes still. Eyes narrowed, as if trying to figure out if he believes you.

You know what he thought.

Might now know a lot about him, but you could sense the danger he thought you were in. Instincts kicking in, as he believes whatever horrors he faced out there were brought back here.

“It’s okay.” You soothe, “You’re safe.”

His nostrils flare, jaw gritting. Fingers fisting in the fabric of your sleep shirt, knuckles biting into your hips.

“Distract me.” He husks, voice low.

Your eyes widen, “How?”

There’s a sharp jerk of his head, his own dark eyes still fixed on yours, “Any way you want.”

He’s still as stone as your eyes sweep across his face again. A million thoughts running through your head, as your thumb sweeps across a stubble-lined jaw.

Head tilting, until you can press your lips just above, against the sharp cut of a cheekbone.

You can feel his exhale against you. The tightly-strung muscles easing, even as he tugs you closer. Even as you hear the hitch in his breath, the way his head tips towards yours.

You move slow.

The next brushing his cheek.

Another, to the corner of his lips.

It’s then that he moves. A rough groan in his throat as his hand shifts to your chin. Holding you in place so his mouth can meet yours.

Something chaste, that turns hungry. His hips canting into yours, as his tongue sweeps into your mouth.

You let him. Fingers slipping against the short, velvet-shorn hair. Up until there’s something to grip onto, as his hips rocks against yours.

“Fuck.” It’s rumbled against your lips, “Been driving me crazy, sweetheart.”

You moan, as his lips drag to press against your jaw. How his thigh rocks against your core, where you’re still pinned between him and the door.

“Haven’t been doing anything,” You protest, weakly, “Just patching you up.”

There’s the rough huff of a laugh.

“Funny how that works.”

There’s the pounding of your heart, just below his lips. Fingers that trace the waistband of your sleep shorts. Slipping beneath your shirt to grasp at your waist.

Tugging, until you’re rubbing yourself on his thigh. The muscles flexing beneath you as you gasp, nails biting into his bare shoulders.

Trying to avoid the bruises, his skin hot to the touch. Another roll - again and again. A rough grunt each time you press flush, when the imprint of his cock ruts against your hip.

The seam on your shorts catch on your clit. Your breath quickens, as your arousal dampens the thin cloth. A dark patch seeping into the dark denim, but Frank only groans when his eyes flick down to see the gleam.

“Feels good.” You breathe, eyes half-lidded.

His teeth flash white, in the dark room. Pressing harder, until you’re whimpering. Until there’s a building pressure in your belly, toes curling against the worn rug.

“Frank.” It’s a plea, it’s a warning.

“Yeah, beautiful?” His knowing tone, the sweet name sends heat to your cheeks, “You close? Think you can come for me like this?”

You don’t know if you can. All you know is the feeling of his thigh nudging against you, as his boot bounces. The rasp of his stubbled cheek against yours.

“Think you can.” Frank hums, “Think you want me to hear how pretty you sound when you come.”

His name strings out. Fingers teasing, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. A rough moan in your ear when he meets bare, slick skin.

Another pulled when your own hand drifts. A palm cupping him, where his clothed cock ruts into your hip. The heel of your hand nudging with the flex of his thigh.

Again, and again. Sweet nothings slipping from you, a heady mix of his name and “please” and “oh my god-”, as your head tips back.

His mouth against your neck, your chin, your mouth. Your cry cut short as his body presses you flush between him and the door.

Fingers slipping down. Beneath the dampened fabric, circles pressed against your clit. Wanting to do this himself, to give this to you.

The pleasure blooms low in your belly. Liquid heat and the release of what feels like weeks of building pressure coursing through you, as he brings you over the edge.

Your orgasm pulsing low and warm, as your hands find his shoulders. Adding fingerprint bruises to one’s he already carries. Ones he’ll look at fondly, when he’s alone.

Frank’s knee only eases from you, when that tight grip on him finally loosens.

The aftershocks still honey-sweet where they thud in your core. Legs like jelly, as your back slips against the door - as you sink to your knees.

You want all of him.

You’re greedy like that - fingers itching to reach out and take. To beg, but your eyes are drawn the bruises. The shadows under his eyes, you don’t know the last time he slept.

There will be more time, later. If you’re lucky.

“Hey. Hey-” His voice is almost worried, broad hands wrapping around your biceps. The words twisting into a choked sound instead, when your hands trace up his thighs. Over the slick patch, darkening the denim.

Eye-level with his hips. Your gaze meeting his, as you press an open-mouthed kiss against the straining curve.

He groans then. Bare chest heaving, as his hands drop to his belt. No words needed, in sync from the nights already spent together - from patching him up in near-silence.

Thumbs hooking into the waistband of dark boxers, tugging down. Your eyes tracing where the dark trail from his belly thickens, hair coarse at the base of his cock.

“Don’t have to.” It’s half-hearted. A tick to his jaw, when your fingers join his.

Another sharp tug, until his cock is freed. Achingly hard, as it bobs in front of you. A pretty shade of pink that grows darker at the tip. A drop leaking from the slit, the head already glossy from where it smeared against fabric.

God, you need to taste him.

“I know.” You breathe, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you grin, “I want to.”

Leaning forward to taste him. A kiss against the shaft, tongue flattening against velvet skin.

“Wanna take care of you.”

His fingers flex, curling into fists.

Your eyes meeting his, “Think you like it when I do.”

Frank stiffens at your words, a sharp inhale through teeth. But you miss it - lips parting to take him into your mouth. A moan as you suck, feeling how his cock jerks against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He grits - the flex of his hand, as he cups the back of your neck. Fingers twining into your hair, tugging.

“Just once.”

Don’t know if he’s telling you, or if he’s telling himself. But he doesn’t need to tell you.

There’s a part of you is certain each time is the last you’ll see him.

Always hoping he will come back, of course. Looking for him, even.

But never expecting it.

You’ll take what you can get. What he gives you inching further into your mouth - the hollow of your cheeks as you suck, head gently bobbing.

He’s big. You knew he would be, could feel the heft of him beneath your palm. An ache in your jaw already, but it’s worth it - to give him this.

“Just this one time.” He repeats, hushed.

As if he’s not imaging how you taste. Knowing you’re slick and bare and dripping beneath those shorts. Knowing that’s the only layer he’d need to rip away, to find out how soft you truly are.

Wet and warm, for him. A perfect fit for his cock, though he can’t get enough of the way you hum around him.

Forgotten what it was like.

Spit strings between your lips and his cock, when you pull back. He lets you - that grip loosening, though his fingers stay twisted in your hair. Keeping you close, only slipping away long enough for you to tug the shirt from your shoulders.

Letting it pool on the floor, letting his eyes drag over more bare skin beneath. His touch following without thinking - calloused fingers tracing your shoulders. The soft curves of your tits, palm cupping flesh.

The other hand anchoring himself to you again as before. The curved weight against the back of your head - a gentle, encouraging pressure.

Urging you to his cock again. Already missing the warmth of your mouth. Working him back up to that peak again, and then further - as you take him into your throat.

His breathing grows shorter. Those same sounds that slip from him when your needle sinks too deep, knitting skin together.

Given freely now. Muscles flexing as he bucks into your mouth, chasing the pleasure that threatens to snap inside him.

“Shit, baby.” Frank rasps, “You want me to come on these?”

A squeeze against your chest. You make a low sound in your throat, in response. Eyes flicking up, sinking another inch deeper as your fingers grasp onto his jeans.

“Fuck.” The syllables draw out, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

His fingers tug harder. The flicker of pain along your scalp blending with the heat that lingers between your thighs.

Keeping your eyes on his as his hips move just a little faster. Air inhaled through your nose as a hand slips up to curl around his base.

Easing off just enough that you can jerk him into your mouth.

Your name comes out ragged, slipped into a moan. A curl of his lips over teeth, panting breath.

“Gonna make me come, honey.” It’s a warning, but your tongue only curls around the head. Waiting to taste him fully, as he groans.

Another choked breath, his head tilting back, before his cock throbs between your lips. Pulsing against your tongue, as your fist works him empty.

Your eyes close then. Senses narrowing down to the sounds he makes. Filthy, as his fingers tug hard enough to hurt, unconsciously rocking into the suction of your mouth with each drop that spills against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He mutters again.

Softer, this time. Fingers suddenly dropping, shifting to smooth over your cheeks. A low hiss, when you ease off him - only for your head to dip forward again. To catch the last errant drop on your tongue, as it flicks against his slit.

Desperate to keep him, like this, for just a little longer. Yours, if only for a moment.

“You wanna stay? Can make you a real breakfast.”

It slips from you, from kiss-swollen lips as your head tips up. His boxers still a mess around his thighs, your fingers still circled around him.

You’d taste like him, if he bent down to kiss you.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Frank rasps.

“I will.”

perhaps my imagining of a potential sugar x frank meet-cute??? 😁💖 thank you for reading!!

[lieslab]

If we could only turn back time

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X gn reader

Summary: After a Dispatch article leaks, your betrayed boyfriend kicks you out of your shared apartment and you're silenced in the worst way possible.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 5.1K

Trigger warning: Misunderstood trope, physical assault, anger, yelling, a car accident, plus graphic descriptions of physical injuries, and doctors/hospitals.

A/N: I had three hours of sad One Direction music, one request, and a dream. Requestee, you asked for angst and I have given it my all. I hope this meets every expectation and more <3

_ _ _

You were the light of Bang Chan’s life. At least, that’s what he thought. For months, his love grew for you. Over time, he opened up more and more. You crawled into his heart and made yourself at home. 

And then you tore it open. 

He thought he finally had the love of his life, but it turns out, you were just like the others. Not really loving him, but dragging along, clinging onto clout, and when the next man came, you jumped with both feet. You didn’t even say goodbye, but neither did he. 

There was no warning for either of you. One day, the two of you were head over heels for each other. The next, everything fell apart. Hearts cracked like stained glass. Tears fell, but the words from both of you didn’t provide the comfort the other so desperately craved. 

In the end, two hearts ripped apart. The world tipped in the wrong direction. You both lost your footing and for weeks, nothing would be the same for either of you, ever again. 

~ ~ ~ 

When you came home from buying groceries, the apartment was quiet, like usual. Chan’s warm presence had been gone since this morning. Up at the crack of dawn, he disappeared to continue making his dreams come true. 

You missed him when he was gone, just as he missed you, but dreams were important. No matter what happened between the two of you, it was the one thing you both agreed that it was important. No matter where your life took you, the most important thing was keeping focused on your dreams. 

Yes, the two of you were in love, but that wasn’t stopping either of you from pursuing your passions. Not yet engaged, the two of you vowed to be supportive of each other. Through thick and thin, in the risky moments, and everything in between; you swore to be there for one another. 

Your bare feet glided across the tile floor with ease. Without Chan, the apartment felt empty, but that didn’t stop you from trying to make it feel warm and fuzzy. Over on the side counter, you turned on the candle warmer. Maybe by the time Chan got home, the apartment would be full of a welcoming vanilla buttercream. 

You swore his cologne had hints of vanilla. He disagreed with you and insisted you didn’t know your scents. Just to prove a point, you bought the vanilla candle, and yet, he refused to see it.

He could be stubborn like that sometimes. Certain things he couldn’t see. No matter how hard and how obvious you attempted to make these things, he refused to see them. Sometimes, it was more frustrating than anything, but you learned to deal with every part of him; the good and the bad. 

You had your own set of flaws, too. Out of everyone existing in the world, there was nobody that you wanted to be with more than Chan. The two of you were still so young. There was a lifetime of adventures and fun to have. You were hoping the relationship between the two of you would last forever. 

It ended when Chan stormed through your front door. The bang of the front door slamming against the sidewall sent your heart racing. You grabbed a can of peas for defense and held your breath. 

Footsteps stormed through your living room. Your fingers turned pale around the can. A sigh of relief fell from you when you saw the furrow on Chan’s face. “Holy shit, you scared the crap out of me. What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” 

You put down the can and walked towards him. Your hands stretched out to grab his face. To your surprise, he swatted them away. Your eyes widen at the faint sting. “What are you-” 

“You don’t get to baby me after what you did!” 

“I-I did something? What did I-” 

“Shut up! You don’t get to pretend like you don’t know! You know I’ve felt like a piece of shit because I can’t be here twenty-four-seven! You know I travel for work and yet you still choose to hurt me in the worst way possible!” 

Confusion filled your face and it just pissed him off more. He jerked his Samsung phone from his pocket. You watched as he typed in the password. Your actions from the past few days rolled through your head like stop-motion. Each silent click, more scenes filled your head. 

None of them stood out. You couldn’t recall what you did wrong, but Chan was furious. Your mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. He flipped the screen to find the bold words of a Dispatch article. Your heart hit the ground with a sickening splat. 

Trouble in paradise: A Rocky Road Ahead For Stray Kids’ Bang Chan’s Romantic Relationship. 

Attached, two photos of you grinning at another JYP idol from another group. In one, you were waving at them. In another, you were leaning over and hugging them. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” 

“Really? Because you know what it looks like to me? It looks like you were attempting to hide a close relationship with someone in a younger group.” 

“That’s not true! Chan, it’s Dispatch! You can’t possibly believe that I-” 

“I want you out of my apartment.” 

Your face fell at his words. “You…you wouldn’t. Please, just let me explain and I-” 

“When have you ever talked about him? Never! You’ve never been close to another idol! Yet now, you’re hugging him?” 

“Chan, please!” 

“Get out!” 

“But-” 

“Out!” His voice raised. “Get your stuff and get the fuck out of my apartment! Don’t bother coming back!” 

The words were loud enough to frighten you. You left the grocery bags scattered on the kitchen island and took off. Tears filled your eyes. You wanted to explain, but he kept cutting you off. 

Too heated to think about the situation, his insecurities got the best of him. In the kitchen, he slumped against the counter with his head in his hands. Warm tears filled his eyes at the sound of your sniffles. 

He wanted to comfort you, but the hurt was too much. He grew to love you with everything he had and within one Dispatch article, his swollen heart popped. How could you do this to him? After everything the two of you had been through, why did you have to ruin it? 

Tears blurred your vision and you didn’t look back. You jerked items from the closet and tossed them in your suitcase. Grabbing handfuls from each of your dresser drawers, you tossed them in with everything. Even the toiletries, you didn’t have time to organize them. 

Chan wanted you to go, so you’d leave. At the end of the day, this was his apartment. You paid rent, but his name was the first on the contract. He paid the down payment, not you. 

You gave him one last desperate look as you passed by, but he didn’t see it. His name fell from your mouth in a weak croak, but he didn’t pull his hands from his eyes. “Please, just go away.” 

You spun around, gripped your suitcase tighter, and then you did. 

~ ~ ~ 

All night, you drove around without a destination in mind. You refused to call one of Chan’s members and plead for help. It’d only stir up drama in the group. That was the last thing you wanted. 

Numbness hung over your head. You still couldn’t believe everything that happened a few hours ago. If he would have listened, he would have understood. The tears dried up a while ago, but the empty feeling in your chest didn’t go away. 

Seoul’s late afternoon crept into another dark night. Gray blotted skies drifted into a pitch black. Neon lights reflected off the paint on your car, but the warm colors didn’t warm your heart. 

The car felt lonely without Chan. You’d give anything to hear his laughter from beside you. The playful banter while he reminded you to turn on the correct turn signal. It’d been a constant inside joke between the two of you. Ever since you accidentally flicked on the wrong signal and turned the wrong way, he’d never let it go. 

The way he tipped his head forward. Messy tendrils of dark hair fell over his forehead. His squeaky laugh warmed your heart. Such a far comparison from the anger that rattled the apartment walls earlier. 

You poked his dimples between the stoplights. On nights when the two of you wanted to get away from everyday life, you found peace in this car. You’d drive and be in control for once. He’d sit beside you with a hand on your thigh. 

Simple conversations filled the car. Love pooled between the two of you. Shared laughter, quiet conversations, and the secret getaway that your car provided you’d do anything to turn back time. 

You loved him for a reason. You always had and you always would. Just because photos told one story, it didn’t mean they told the entire story. Snippets didn’t capture the truth. The context was important, but Chan was too distraught tonight. 

Too stressed out. Too angry. Too frustrated. Things built up and that article was the breaking point. Those photographs became thorns in your relationship. In one day, the roses wilted. Withered petals gathered at your feet. 

Tomorrow would be better, you reassured yourself as you drove. Tomorrow, Chan would realize he was wrong. He jumped the gun in this situation. In the morning, he’d call you and apologize. 

Tomorrow, you’d be welcomed home with a heartfelt apology and a bouquet of fresh flowers. A glass full of red wine, sweets, and a home cooked dinner. Tomorrow, things will be okay again. These tears were temporary. This hurt wouldn’t last forever. 

At a stoplight, you grabbed your phone and dialed Changbin’s number. On speaker phone, you waited and waited, but he didn’t pick up. If anyone would know the truth and be able to rationalize Chan’s brain, it was him. 

The red light from the stoplights highlighted faint tear streaks. You sniffled, wiping your long sleeve across your dripping nose. Your eyes shut and your voice cut out and quivered as you spoke. 

“Please know that I didn’t mean to cause him or you guys any harm. I ran into him the other day and asked if he could help teach me a dance. He’s one of JYP’s best dancers and I know Stray Kids are busy. His group is on break and I just thought I could surprise Chan with a dance.” 

“Saying it out loud, I get that it’s stupid now. I was just hoping it’d cheer him up. He’s been so stressed lately. I thought the least I could do was make him laugh.” 

“If you get a chance and if he’s willing to hear it, please let him know I love him. I love him and I’m sorry. Dispatch is stupid and I hate them. You can even ask that idol and he’ll tell you the same thing. I’m so sorry, Changbin. I’ll talk to you later. I have to find a place to stay tonight.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and shut your eyes. After clicking the end call button on your phone, you threw the device into your passenger’s seat. Maybe if you were lucky, Chan would hear out Changbin. Level-headed and rational, you knew Chan appreciated the advice he gave out. 

A car horn honked behind you. Your eyes quickly reopened and the green light stared back at you. Unblinking, you grumbled beneath your breath. “I’m going, I’m going, geez.” You inched out into the intersection, expecting to continue going straight. 

You weren’t expecting your car to jerk left. Your screams blended with the sound of crushing metal. Orange sparks flew. The sickening scent of burnt rubber and diesel hit your nose. Your seatbelt cut into your neck and briefly cut off your air flow. 

The last thing you remembered was the horn of the semi-truck vibrating your entire car. 

~ ~ ~ 

It wasn’t Dispatch that was the first one to find out about the devastating car accident; instead, it was Jeongin. He sucked in a deep breath as he walked into the hospital. Last night, after struggling with the flu, someone admitted his friend to the hospital. 

He mumbled beneath his breath, trying to figure out what to say. A blue medical mask sat over his nose and mouth. He knew to keep his distance, but he still felt awful that they were here. 

Hospitals were lonely. In the brief moments when families and friends disappeared. When the nurses were following their routine rounds and doctors were checking in on other patients, people were left alone. The isolating white walls. The uncomfortable piercing beeps from the heart rate monitor. The cold IV drips, distributing medicine directly into the bloodstream. 

Surgical stitches ached. Disease weighed heavily upon the lungs. Intubation and the mechanical push and pull of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Hospitals were the opposite of warm and welcoming. Cold and sterile, he rather wished his friend was at home. 

The colorful bouquet of multicolored flowers was the brightest thing in the hallway. Closed doors with numbers passed by as he walked. The nurse’s announcement of his friend’s room number echoed in his head. 

It dissipated when he heard your name from a nurse in a cracked room. Before he knew it, he was pushing the door open and stepping inside. On the hospital bed, you were unrecognizable. Scrapes and cuts laced your face. Both plum purple eyes swelled shut.  

The right side of your face puffed up unnaturally. Black stitches poked out from the bottom of your lip. That was just your face. That wasn’t beginning to touch the cast on your arm and the rest of your body hidden beneath the blue covers. 

He knew it was you. He recognized the promise ring on your ring finger. He had helped Chan pick it out. He glanced around, searching for Chan, but he wasn’t there.

“Are you lost?” 

He glanced up to find the nurse. Her blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail. She observed him through black, circular-rimmed glasses. 

He shook his head and repeated your name. The nurse frowned and he pointed to you. “Is this-” 

“Are you family?” 

“Brother.” 

You weren’t biologically related, but it felt true deep down. 

~ ~ ~ 

Changbin tried to bring the situation up to Chan, but every time he spoke your name, Chan would shut down. From what Changbin knew, Chan didn’t know what happened to you. The rest of the guys did, but they all received the same results. Every time they spoke your name, Chan grew irritated and short-tempered. 

“I don’t want to talk about them! Stop bringing them up! Enough!” 

The charming and charismatic leader unraveled at the seams. His heart was full of love for you and you ruined it. That wasn’t something he took lightly. The hurt oozed out in other ways. 

His songs weren’t coming together as easily anymore. He used to get your feedback when he went home, but now the apartment was empty. The bed was colder without you. He was lonely, but he wouldn’t admit it. 

He snapped during dance practice. After he snapped at a manager, a manager lectured him about authority and respecting his elders. Nobody understood the hurt that he was going through. It didn’t help that Dispatch began showing up and bothering him. 

They could take all the pictures they wanted. He’d never give them the satisfaction of breaking his heart. Instead of listening, he put on his airpods and cranked up the music. He shoved through the camera flashes with his baseball hat low and a face mask covering the rest of his face. They didn’t deserve to turn his heartbreak into entertainment. 

He’d never let them break him. They already did it once. You were gone and the longer you went without a call or a text, he assumed they were right. They caught you cheating and you accepted it. You didn’t fight for your relationship. 

You didn’t call and beg for him to take you back. You didn’t call and try to explain. He sent you one text, but you never opened it. He was at a complete loss without you. 

Some would call him stubborn for it, but he’d say that he was just trying to protect himself from more hurt. 

~ ~ ~ 

The lonely days for you didn’t stay lonely for long. Jeongin discovered you hours after your accident. The days slipped by, but you weren’t alone anymore. Unconscious and pumped full of medicine, sure. They were far from lonely. 

Every evening, the guys took turns hanging out beside your bed. Seungmin would sing the songs you liked. Jeongin told you funny stories of Chan, trying to bring you back to consciousness. Minho brought you warm comments from the fans who found out about your accident. The rest of the guys had their own things, but Chan’s voice never filled the room. 

Stuck in a coma, things were dark. Occasionally, you could hear the beeping of your machines. You could feel your lungs expand and compress unnaturally. Your body felt like a shell more than anything. Voices came and went, but never Chan’s. 

In the darkness, you couldn’t see. You weren’t sure if you were dead or not. Stranger’s voices appeared in soft whispers and then they faded. You weren’t sure what was going on, but you knew you were exhausted. 

Those audible voices and sounds never lasted for long. You couldn’t feel pain. Every sensation within you felt numbed. A heavy fog filled your head and something clouded your vision. 

You attempted to open your eyes every so often, but they didn’t budge. Someone glued them shut. Every limb tingled with tiny pins and needles. You didn’t know if this was death, but it didn’t feel comforting. Somewhere between the realm of the living and dead, doctors kept you in a medically induced coma. 

How else could they heal the swelling of your brain? ~ ~ ~  

“I can’t take this anymore!” Felix cried out. He shoved himself from the chair and pulled out his phone. “This is such bullshit! I’m tired of keeping this from him.”

“Well, we’ve tried. What do you propose we do? Tell him to get to the hospital without mentioning his significant other’s name?” Seungmin crossed his arms over his chest. “Good luck. We’ve tried everything and it’s been twenty-something days.” 

“Actually, that’s exactly what we should do. How much longer can this go on for? This is pathetic, even for him! I get that he’s hurt, but look at them!” He reached over and gestured towards your bed. 

You remained intubated and unmoving. The swelling in your puffy eyes faded a little more each day, but they still looked awful. The stitches in your lips disappeared, but a fresh pink scar remained. 

Swirls of purple and blue smeared along your face. Broken bones reset and were on the mend. You were a living miracle. The first responders were afraid you wouldn’t make it, but when they pulled you from the wreckage, you continued breathing. 

So he unlocked his phone and hit Chan’s contact name. 

“Hello?” 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You need to get to the hospital right now. Call me when you get here.” 

“WHAT?” 

“I can’t talk. Just call me when you get here.” 

“Felix!” 

He grimaced and hung up the phone. Seungmin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You probably gave him a heart attack. He’s going to kill you when he gets here, you know?” 

“That’s a problem for later.” ~ ~ ~ 

Chan flew from his apartment. His heart pounded in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Losing you was hard enough. If anything happened to a member of his group, he’d never forgive himself. 

“Come on, come on!” He fumbled with his seat belt in one hand. With the other, he swung his car door shut. In seconds, he jerked the car in reverse and slammed the pedal. 

He lurched down the driveway, spun the wheel with a rubbered squeal, and shifted the car into drive. The engine roared and he sped down the road. 

What-ifs grew stronger on the way to the hospital. His breath caught in his throat and he struggled to stay calm. Last he knew, everyone was fine so what happened? Who? How bad was it? 

The moment he parked, he whipped out his phone and dialed Felix’s number. When Felix responded, his voice came out frantic. “I’m here! Where are you?” 

“Room one-twelve. I’ll meet you half-way. I’ll see you soon.” 

“Wait, who is-” 

Click. 

“Fucking hell!” He cried out. He grabbed the keys, sped from the car, and rushed towards the automatic door. 

Everything was a blur inside. Voices appeared from the waiting room. The receptionist glanced over the front desk and eyed him, but she didn’t stop him. He glanced left and right and opted to go left. 

The carpet disappeared beneath his feet and turned into squeaky clean white vinyl. An easy material to clean and disinfect daily. He rushed forward when he saw Felix appear down the edge of the hall. 

The squeak of his shoes didn’t matter. He ignored the doctor he passed that told him to stop running. By the time he reached Felix, he grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Who is it? What happened? Tell me!” 

“Just, come on.” 

“Felix!” 

Felix didn’t budge. He grabbed Chan’s wrist and pulled him along. His chest filled with anxiety and his lungs compressed. When the pair appeared at the right door, Felix dropped his wrist and slowly pushed the door open. 

He expected to find Han or Jeongin. A broken and battered Hyunjin or Changbin hooked to oxygen. This was the intensive care unit. This was for the severe cases. The patients that required a close eye and keen detailing. 

Upon seeing you, his face fell. The bruising upon your face. The tube down your throat. Your lifeless skin and unmoving limbs. There was no sign of the life the two of you created. 

No reassuring smiles, or laughter. Seungmin sat solemnly beside your bed in a chair. “I’m shocked that you finally made it.” 

“What the hell happened?” He hurried to the opposite side of your bed. His hand reached out, but he didn’t touch you. Too frightened by your state, he didn’t know where he could touch without causing you pain. 

“Try their hand,” an unfamiliar voice spoke up. He whirled around to find a nurse in blue scrubs. “Their hands survived the crash. You can touch their hands if you wish.” 

“Sorry, I came in to get some vitals. It’ll only be a few moments and then I can leave you alone. Visiting hours are open until eleven o’clock tonight. I’ve never seen you here before, so I thought you should know.” 

“How long have they been like this?” He whispered. Tears filled his eyes and his heart ached. 

“Since the night you told them to leave your apartment.” 

“What?” 

“Felix!” Seungmin’s voice shot out sternly. “It’s not like that, Chan. Yes, the accident happened that night, but don’t beat yourself up over it. A driver of a semi-truck was speeding and couldn’t stop in time.” 

“That was nearly a-” 

“I’m sorry, hyung.” Felix’s hand appeared on his shoulder. “We tried to tell you, but every time we tried to utter their name, you were angry. We should have found a better way to tell you, but…” He trailed off, unsure of what else to say. 

The nurse grabbed your vitals and disappeared to give the guys time with you. Chan collapsed to his knees and grabbed your hand with both of his. For nearly a month, you’d been stuck in this bed. He thought you’d given up on the relationship with him. 

This entire time you haven't texted him back. Not because you were angry. Not because you were sad. Not because Dispatch’s rumors were true. But it was because you physically couldn’t. Intubated and trapped in a medically induced coma, you couldn’t reach out, even if you wanted to. 

“I’m so sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry, I-I thought that they-” 

“Easy, hyung.” 

“What did I do? What the fuck did I do? If I wouldn’t have kicked them out of the apartment, this wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have been so angry. I should have let them explain.” 

Seungmin shot Felix a look. He shrugged and gently rubbed Chan’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Channie. You were hurting and you didn’t mean for this to happen.” 

He was supposed to be the leader. A strong pillar and an even stronger influence on his younger members. As the eldest member, he was supposed to be reliable. At that moment, he crumbled. Tears appeared in his eyes as a sob broke from his chest. 

No wonder you had been so quiet. He called you once and hit your voicemail. He longed to hit the call button, just so he could hear your voice again. He squeezed your hand tighter and pressed it against his cheek. 

“Wake up. Wake up, baby, please! Come back to me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I'm so sorry!” 

Tears blurred his vision. He struggled to comprehend your mangled face. Your other hand sat wrapped in a cast. You must have been so broken when you arrived here. He wasn’t here to comfort you. He wasn’t here to try and console and cheer you up. 

A wheeze fell from his throat. The betrayal slicing through his heart disappeared. This time, he felt like he was the one that had betrayed you. He hurt you in the most unimaginable way possible. 

You laid here broken and half-dead. You spent hours fighting for your life alone. And where was he? Walking around your shared apartment drowning in his own self-pity. He’d never forgive himself for this. 

“What is this?” He finally whispered after his sobs faded away. His throat was raw. His voice came out scratchy. “How bad is it?” 

“The doctor said they should wake up at any time. They weren’t breathing on their own. A medically induced coma ensured to make sure their brain’s swelling could stop.” 

“It was that bad? They’ve been suffering through all that alone?” His bottom lip quivered. He grew afraid of the response he’d receive. 

“No,” Seungmin spoke up. “Jeongin found out first. He was the one that notified us. He said he tried to tell you, but when he showed up at your apartment, you told him to leave.” 

Horror filled Chan at the memory. Later that same night, back when you left, Jeongin appeared on his front porch pale. Instead of hearing out the younger member, he told him to get lost and slammed the door in his face. Deep down, he was afraid to be viewed as weak in front of the younger member. 

The memory stung his heart. Poor Jeongin just wanted him to know the truth and he slammed the door in his face. No wonder Jeongin seemed so nervous around him. He was probably worried that Chan would find out the truth and yell at him for not telling him. 

He rubbed his face and pawed at his eyes. “So does everyone know?” 

“Everyone besides you.” 

“Sorry you’re late. None of us knew how to get you here. You’d never listen when we tried to talk about them.” 

“I was such a stupid, selfish asshole.” 

“You were hurting,” Felix corrected him. 

“And a stupid, selfish asshole.” 

“You were.” 

“Seungmin!” Felix cried. 

“No, I want him to know that he was. I’m not going to sit here and pity him. You were a jerk, Chan. I hope you remember this moment whenever you try to act like an asshole again.” 

The words were a slap in the face, and yet he wanted to laugh. As harsh as Seungmin’s words were, they rang true. He was a jerk and maybe, in the cruelest way possible, this was his karma. 

He opened his mouth to respond, but paused when your fingernails scratched at his hand. The tube in your throat caused you to choke. You couldn’t fully see as your eyes half-opened. Still swollen, your vision remained limited. Silhouettes appeared and voices became more distinct. 

“Get a nurse!” 

Footsteps hit the ground. You gargled and reached your opened mouth. “No, no, no! You can’t touch that yet.” 

“Easy, love. Try to relax and don’t fight the tube. It’s breathing for you right now.” 

The distress and quickened-pace of the heart rate monitor hit a hiccup. Chan’s familiar voice grounded you, but you still struggled with the tube. Your lungs wanted to expand, but the machine compressed them. You choked again, still fighting the pesky thing. 

More footsteps. Another silhouette. Glasses on an unfamiliar face and latex rubbing against your skin. “It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m going to take this out now, okay? On the count of three. One, two, three!” 

You gasped and coughed at the removal. Your lungs filled with air of your own accord. More coughing. You attempted to swallow, but your mouth was so dry. The lingering phantom of a headache filled the side of your head. 

“Try a sip of this, sweetheart.” 

The nurse’s tone was honey to your ears. You swallowed the water the moment it hit your lips. One swallow and then another. Two more and suddenly, you were gulping like crazy. 

“Easy, or you’ll choke,” Chan gently reminded you. 

The nurse pulled the glass away when you finished. “Do you know where you are?” 

“Hospital?” 

“Do you remember your name?” 

“Chan?” 

“I’m right here, honey. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. Do you remember your name? This nice nurse wants to help you get better. Your doctor is on his way.” 

Every question asked, you answered it perfectly. A buzz of excitement swirled around the room from your consciousness. Seungmin and Felix left the room to give everyone the good news. 

When the doctor concluded you were stable, he disappeared with the nurse. A silence fell between you and Chan. You still couldn’t see perfectly, but you could feel the weight of his hand in yours. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry for that night.” 

“I don’t want to talk about that night.” 

“I was an idiot.” 

“Dumbass,” you weakly corrected him. 

“I see getting hit by a semi-truck hasn’t taken away your sass.” 

“If I can survive this, I can survive anything.” 

“I love you and I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, I love you and I don’t want to hear anything else about that. I’m so tired. Can you sing me to sleep or something?” 

“If I do, promise you won’t die?” 

“I promise.” 

Even if you couldn’t make out his face, you knew his voice, and that was good enough for you. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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Ko-fi

[sloaneispunk]

“teacher’s pet” (mdni 18+)

teacher!in-ho x you

when in-ho’s wife tragically passed, he found comfort in a certain student in his class. how far was he willing to go with a student?

✮⋆˙ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✮⋆˙

in-ho had a perfect life. stable job, great friends and a loving wife.

he loved his wife unconditionally, they had the perfect relationship. they rarely argued, and the sex was amazing.

but his life came crumbling when he received a phone call from the hospital. his wife had gotten into a car accident.

in-ho was lost after that, for a few months he stepped down from teaching. he spent his time trying to find his happiness again. it was hard, he was stricken with grief, he thought there was nothing else for him in life.

eventually in-ho felt like he should get off his ass and do something.

he met with the principal of the school he was teaching at, wanting to get back.

he thought of it like a distraction, just something he could look forward to in the daytime.

✮⋆˙ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✮⋆˙

it was the first day of school, students were pushing and shoving to get to class.

you entered the classroom with your friends, seeing a new, unfamiliar teacher at the front of the classroom, taking your seat at the back.

“good morning class, my name is mr in-ho, i’ll be your new math teacher this semester.” the teacher announced as he turned to face the students.

“hey, he’s pretty hot.” you turned to look at your friend with your mouth hung wide open, slapping her on the arm as you both laughed.

lesson went on as per normal that first day, mr in-ho spent the hour introducing himself and getting to know everyone.

as the bell rang, signalling the end of class, everyone packed their bags frantically.

“that’s all, i’ll see everyone tomorrow.” mr in-ho said.

as the students got up to leave, a loud thud was heard from the front of the classroom.

“get up, nerd.” you heard.

you sighed, walking towards the girl who had been tripped by another student, helping her up as you glared at her bully.

“fuck off, what do you want?” you asked, taking a protective stand in front of the poor girl.

the bully said nothing, simply turning on his heel and leaving.

by now, all the students had left, leaving you, the girl, and mr in-ho behind.

“t-thank you.” the girl said, bowing her head as you frowned.

“you don’t have to thank me. he shouldn’t be doing that… are you okay?” you asked.

she then nodded, giving you an awkward smile as you scurried off.

“hey, what’s your name?” you heard a voice call out from behind you.

“oh, i didn’t realise you were still here.” you replied, seeing the new teacher behind his desk, packing his bag. “i’m y/n. y/n l/n.”

“that’s pretty.” he commented, offering you a small smile.

“thank you.” you blushed.

“that was really kind, what you did there.”

“oh, yeah, he has been really mean to many students. poor girl just didn’t have anyone looking out for her.”

“you’re a good girl, y/n.”

oh.

“t-thank you?” you chuckled nervously.

“what’s your next class? maybe i could walk you there.” mr in-ho said as the two of you stepped outside into the hallway.

“english. but i think i’ll be the one leading you.” you joked, causing him to let out a laugh.

✮⋆˙ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✮⋆˙

that night, in-ho went home feeling better than he had been the past few months. he felt like he had really connected with his new students.

they were so kind, so gentle, so sweet…

no, you were.

you were so kind, so gentle, so sweet.

the interaction he had with you kept replaying in his mind, he couldn’t think about anything or anyone else.

you reminded him of someone he used to know, and that fueled him.

the next day, he went to class as per usual. however, he didn’t take your class until noon, which meant he had to wait patiently for your class.

by 11am, he got pretty bored he had to admit. in-ho felt like he was just going through the motions, teaching the different batches of students that came in one after another.

however, when the clock striked 12, oh he was excited.

what he was excited about? he didn’t know.

he then heard a familiar laugh echoing through the halls. he turned to the door, waiting expectantly for you to come through.

the door flew open, revealing not only you to his dismay, but your group of friends surrounding you. he couldn’t make out what you were laughing about but he was incredibly intrigued.

“good afternoon.” you said cheerfully as you gave him a small wave before you took your seat.

in-ho felt a wave of flush run through him, he cleared his throat and ruffled his hair. “good afternoon, y/n.”

“oo, someone already made a move before the rest of us.” your friend teased, nudging your elbow playfully as you rolled your eyes.

time passed quickly as in-ho taught his first lesson to your class. he had found himself stealing tiny glances of you as he walked around, trying his hardest to not make it obvious.

his heart was beating so quickly he thought he could pass out.

maybe he was being delusional, or maybe even hallucinating, but he swore at times when he stole glances, you were already staring. and that made him nearly choke on his words multiple times.

after class, he stayed behind again, hoping that you would somehow approach him, striking up a conversation.

but you didn’t.

someone did approach him, but it wasn’t you. it was your friend.

“so… where did you teach before this? do you like it here? how is it like teaching our class?” she bombarded him with questions.

you took it as a sign to leave.

as you walked out, you turned for one last look. but to your surprise, you were met with the eyes of mr in-ho, as soon as he had been caught, he looked away, pretending to be interested in the conversation.

“see you tomorrow, mr in-ho.” you called out. but before he had the chance to reply, you had left.

somehow, you felt jealous. jealous that he was talking to someone like you first did. but why did it matter? he was just your teacher afterall.

✮⋆˙ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✮⋆˙

that night as he got home, in-ho dropped all his things. he practically ripped open his shirt and unbuckled his pants as fast as he could.

god, he couldn’t get you out of his mind.

he thought of your soft voice and your innocent face as he started to stroke himself.

‘fuck.’ he cursed as he started to go faster, his mind racing with images of your face.

he could almost hear your voice calling his name again. he replayed your laughter over and over again like a broken record.

in-ho went to sleep that night with you and only you on his mind. he knew he was fucked.

✮⋆˙ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✮⋆˙

weeks went by and in-ho found himself getting bolder and bolder.

within a month, he moved on to not so subtle touches.

as he paced around the classroom teaching, he took your seat at the back of the classroom to his advantage. he tested waters initially, brushing against your arm as he walked by.

when you seemed okay with it, he tried to deepen the contact.

he would place a hand on your shoulder as he passed you. when you didn’t move away or seemed uncomfortable, he knew he hit the jackpot.

his touch started to linger for longer than it needed to. somehow he craved touching you more and more.

what made him more desperate was the fact that he could smell your perfume whenever he walked anywhere near you.

it messed with his head in the best way possible.

furthermore, he started to notice how his actions took a toll on you. whenever he gently touched your shoulder, you would draw your legs together. was he really turning you on?

if he had happened to see you in the hallways, he would call you by name, greeting you, even starting small conversations.

he loved how everytime he did so, you light blush would creep onto your cheeks and you would struggle to meet his gaze, looking anywhere but into his eyes.

if this continued, he didn’t know how much he could take. all the cock-teasing, the small interactions.

he wanted more.

✮⋆˙ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✮⋆˙

( bungee jumping off their own - 2001 )

[bunny-jpeg]

you had how many kids? (141 + more)

long post - sorry!

captain john price -

the first time price sank his cock into you. it was game over. you are probably going to end up with at least six kids running around a big piece of land in the center of the british isle. equal split between three girls and three boys. the price genes must be strong because they all look like spitting images of their father.

price loves his wife though, he just thinks you're the sweetest thing since honey. after you put the kids to bed and you're in your bedroom, your darling husband can't help but hold onto you by the hips and maybe rub up against you. your softness, so motherly. it almost makes his mouth water. he tries to convince you for baby number seven but you just tell him that there's no way that's happening. but price is a cunning man and maybe a few mind blowing orgasms will change your mind.

simon 'ghost' riley -

your daughter was an accident. it was simon's last night at home before he got deployed again. and he spent that entire night sunk into your sweet cunt. you'd find out a month into his deployment that you were pregnant. worried about telling him, you kept it to yourself. you were anxious about the news throwing him off his game and him getting hurt. he needed to come home alive.

when he came home, he made sure he treated his missus right. while the pregnancy was a bit of a shock, he made sure he made up for lost time. and while that often had you on your back. it almost meant being spoiled by your husband. your daughter was close to being the biggest the hospital had delivered. you two would be content with your daughter, who took mostly after you. but within five years she would be going around proclaiming that she was going to be a big sister!

john 'soap' mactavish -

oh johnny was a smart man. he knew what he wanted and he got it with ease. he wanted to take you back home, settle you down in a night place in edinburgh. he was thinking in the stockbridge neighbourhood, where you and him could raise your kids in peace. the first time he held you in a mating press he knew that he wanted to be the father to your (many) children. he'd take care of ya, never let the mother of his children be without. he placed a sloppy kiss on your lips, a seal of his promise. you end up with two boys, only eleven months apart (the look you got from your doctor when she found out you were pregnant so soon). they were mactavish boys that was for sure. their father's dark hair and he winning smile.

johnny does want a daughter however, he imagined she'd be a spitting image of you. while he loved his boys, there was no question about that, he thought a daughter would complete your little family. curious eyes like yours, that beautiful smile. as he kissed your neck and dug his fingers into your soft hips. maybe he could convince you in a few years to try for one.

kyle 'gaz' garrick -

kyle never thought that he would've ever been a father. when he signed up for service, he didn't expect to be done with that role well beyond when it would be suitable to be a father. so your son was an accident. he could almost pinpoint the night of his conception. he was home from abroad and the two of you spent the entire night (and the following morning) becoming requited with your bodies. you giggled when he showed off his more toned muscles and his fingers got tangled in your hair. his dark eyes felt familiar, like home, under the soft light of your bedroom. The resulting time together produced his son.

you don't end up with a big family, while you two live in a decently sized home just outside the city he is content with it just being the three of you. he'd rather be the best parent to one then worse off to more. he was a good father to his son, proud of the little baby. even when he woke you both up at all hours of the night. it was life and kyle was happy. but when your son turned five, you had something to share with kyle. you were pregnant again. he had to admit, after that, the idea of having a few more kids wasn't a bad idea.

bonus! bonus! bonus!

phillip graves -

oh phillip wants a full house. he didn't buy that nice piece of land outside of houston for show. big yard, white picket fence, in a safe neighourhood (can't have you getting hurt!). he'd be living out his all american dream. so when you ended up pregnant five months after marriage with twins, he was beyond happy. he thought your pregnant body was beautiful, even well into your second trimester he was fucking that sweet cunt of yours. telling you how good of a mama you were.

phillip thought you were the best thing since sliced bread. even when the aches and pains of pregnancy come and go, he'd making sure that his wife is good. if he can't be around, he sends his shadows to make sure that you and the kiddos are alright. so expect a big, loving all american family. you'd never thought you'd be spending your twenties caring for almost five kids!

col. alejandro vargas -

alejandro wants you safe. and you being pregnant can cause some issues. it makes you a target, so you packed up your life and headed somewhere more quiet. most information about you was redacted from public and private records. he even went as far as to change your name and identification. it was for you, for him and for the daughter you eventually had. but despite that, when alejandro returned home. he was the shadow to your daughter. she knew who her daddy was. eventually when he can get out of the snare of the military, he was home. your little place in the middle of nowhere, he promised to protect you and your little bundle.

the times he visited while you were pregnant though. he loved to run his hands up and down your swollen middle. he smiled at you, almost proud of what he did to you. while you'd in the end have only your daughter, it was a complete home. and don't worry, after your daughter's birth he is more than willing to show how much he loved his sweet wife.

rodolfo "rudy" parra -

oh rudy, sweet rudy. he couldn't help himself. the first time you fucked, or rather made love, he knew he wanted to breed that pussy of yours. he was using a condom, but he could picture himself doing it bare backed. the feeling of your slippery cunt tight around him. nothing protecting you from accidents. he'd often daydream on his off time about the three kids you had. he had even picked names out for them, but he'd get your input on it as well. after all you were the beautiful woman who was carrying them. such a good wife to him.

he left the military when you got pregnant, as did you. life became less about the violent conflicts and more about raising your son. he was a quiet baby, and rudy adored him. he also adored his beautiful wife who worked so hard to give him his son. he reminded you of that often. you do end up with those three kids within a five year gap and rudy couldn't be happier.

könig-

oh, könig. he knew that you'd be carrying a big baby. like look at him, he towered over you and could easily bench you in your third trimester. so he wasn't expecting a whole army of children. one very large boy was enough for him. the 99th percentile. but he was there the entire time, he made sure that you were taken care of. he felt safe having his larger body up against yours, protecting it. he'd rub your belly with his large hand. even if you were very pregnant, you still were small compared to him.

he loves his son, obviously. the first time he held him, he almost cried. he was a father now. he had a wife and a child, a home to call his home and a place to feel safe. he was an attentive father, he was used to being up early. so you got to sleep in while he checked in on your son. he made sure to teach him german, english and a few of the other languages he had picked up. he was going to make sure his son knew all about the world. he was a proud father!

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hey, I love your fanfics so much!! I would like to know if you could make one that involves anguish... Charles' daughter suffers an accident and he panics

Papa is here

The house was filled with laughter and the clinking of wine glasses as Charles and Alexandra enjoyed a quiet evening with their friends. Carlos and Rebecca sat comfortably at the dining table, while Pierre and Kika occupied the couch, engaged in an animated conversation. The air smelled of good food, candles flickered warmly, and for once, life felt simple.

"She really drives everywhere now, doesn’t she?" Carlos chuckled, swirling the deep red liquid in his glass.

"Everywhere," Charles said with a soft smile, leaning back in his chair. "Mall, school, beach… I swear, I barely see her anymore."

Alexandra sighed but with a proud gleam in her eyes. "She’s independent, and honestly, it’s been a relief. She’s always been responsible."

Pierre smirked, nudging Charles. "She got that from her mother."

Charles scoffed. "Excuse me? I think I was a pretty responsible teenager."

"You? Responsible?" Rebecca laughed. "Didn’t you once race your dad’s car through Monaco because you were late for dinner?"

Carlos burst into laughter. "I’d pay to see that!"

Charles groaned, rubbing his temples as the others teased him. But despite the playful banter, pride swelled in his chest. His little girl, his Yn, had grown up so fast.

Just then, Alexandra’s phone buzzed. She barely glanced at it before picking up.

"Hello?"

Everyone continued talking, but within seconds, the atmosphere shifted. Alexandra’s expression froze, her body went rigid, and her grip on the phone tightened.

"What?!" she cried, standing abruptly. Her chair scraped against the floor as she turned pale. "No, no, no—please, tell me she’s okay! Please!"

The entire room fell silent. Charles’ heart stopped.

Alexandra’s breath came in ragged gasps. "Where is she? How bad is it? I need—I need to see her! Please!"

The moment she ended the call, tears streamed down her face as she looked at Charles.

"It’s Yn," she whispered, her voice breaking. "She—she had an accident. Another driver hit her."

Charles felt the air leave his lungs. His heart pounded violently in his chest, his ears ringing. "Where?" he choked out.

"The hospital," Alexandra sobbed. "She’s in surgery."

No one wasted another second.

The drive to the hospital was tense and silent, except for Alexandra’s quiet crying and Charles’ shaking hands gripping the wheel. His mind was racing, his thoughts a blur of fear and worst-case scenarios. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.

When they arrived, Charles practically ran inside, the others hurrying after him.

"My daughter—Yn Jules Leclerc," he gasped at the nurse's station, barely able to form words. "She was brought in after a car accident. Please, tell me she’s okay."

The nurse gave him a soft, apologetic smile. "She’s still in surgery. The doctors are doing everything they can."

Alexandra let out a pained sob, covering her mouth as Rebecca wrapped an arm around her. Kika, holding back tears herself, held her other hand.

Charles stepped back, running both hands through his hair as panic clawed at his chest.

Pierre and Carlos exchanged worried looks before stepping closer.

"Hey, Charles, breathe, mate," Pierre murmured, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe? My daughter is in surgery, Pierre!" Charles snapped, his voice shaking. "I—I don’t even know if—" He cut himself off, unable to say the words.

Carlos took a slow step forward. "Listen to me. I know you’re scared. We all are. But you’re no good to Yn if you collapse from a panic attack, okay?" His voice was steady but gentle, his hand squeezing Charles’ shoulder.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, his breath uneven. His whole body trembled, and for a terrifying moment, he felt like he was losing control.

Pierre guided him to a chair. "Sit. Just for a moment."

"I can’t—I can’t just sit while she’s—"

"I know," Carlos said quietly. "But you need to breathe."

Charles swallowed hard, gripping his knees, trying to steady himself. He could hear Alexandra’s quiet sniffles, Rebecca whispering reassurances, Kika rubbing her back.

The minutes dragged on painfully. Every time footsteps echoed down the hall, Charles’ head snapped up, desperate for news.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a doctor in blue scrubs approached.

"Yn Leclerc's family?"

Charles shot up so fast his chair nearly fell over. "Yes! Yes, we’re her parents!"

The doctor nodded, his face unreadable. "She’s out of surgery. The accident caused significant injuries—her left arm is broken, and she had internal bleeding, but we were able to stabilize her. She’s still unconscious, but she’s strong. She made it through."

Charles let out a shaky breath, relief and fear mixing painfully in his chest. "Can I see her?"

"She’s in room 214," the doctor said with a small smile. "She’ll need time, but she’ll recover."

Before anyone could react, Charles was already running.

The sight of Yn in the hospital bed nearly broke him.

Her face, usually so full of life, was pale and bruised. A bandage wrapped around her forehead, her arm in a cast, tubes connected to machines that beeped softly.

Charles’ legs nearly gave out.

He stumbled to her bedside, his hands trembling as he reached for her, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face.

"Papa is here, mon amour," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. His fingers stroked her hair gently, as if afraid she might break under his touch.

He had been so scared. So, so scared.

"I should have been there," he murmured, his throat tightening. "I should have protected you."

His other hand grasped hers, careful not to disturb the IV line. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft, shaky kiss to her knuckles.

"You scared me, mon ange," he admitted, his eyes stinging. "But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere."

The door opened quietly, and Alexandra walked in, her eyes red from crying. Behind her, Pierre, Carlos, Rebecca, and Kika lingered.

Seeing Yn like this broke her all over again. She clutched Charles’ shoulder for support. "She’s okay," she whispered, mostly to reassure herself.

Charles nodded but didn’t take his eyes off their daughter. "She is."

Silence filled the room, heavy with emotions.

Rebecca sniffled. "She’s gonna be so mad when she wakes up and sees all of us hovering."

Pierre chuckled weakly. "She’ll roll her eyes and tell us we’re dramatic."

Carlos smirked. "That would be a good sign."

Charles finally let out a small, exhausted laugh. "Yeah… it would."

They stayed there, surrounding Yn with love, waiting for her to wake up. And when she did, Charles would be right there, holding her hand, reminding her that no matter what—

Papa is here.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves! I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[novthirty]

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter one]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn

a/n — oh how i wish to leave my academically rigorous life and get isekai-d… next chapter will be sometime next week as i’m on the brink with finals (the class average on the exam is 7/45 we are not okay) i might not reply to all comments but i want u to know i see all of them n blush & kick my feet every time 🥰

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open! series masterlist | part two

chapter one: descent — after finding yourself in an unfortunate accident, you wake up in the world of love and deepspace. you go from burned out college student to secretary at your wit's end. wc: 4k

January snow falls on your tongue, plumes of warm air escaping your breath into the cold. It was just your luck to get saddled with a 7 PM class this semester, relegated to walking home in the late winter chill. You clutch your bag tighter as you walk down the desolate road, devoid of any streetlights— when a vehicle swerves and crashes into you. The impact is that of a sledgehammer to your body, as you hear the crunch of glass and the snap of bones. 

This is the end, you think, as the world around you blurs into nothingness. 

—————————————————————

You rise to consciousness upon hearing a steady, mechanical beeping— and promptly have a panic attack upon seeing the IV attached to your arm. You feel yourself hyperventilating, the heart rate monitor crashing as a triad of nurses comes in to restrain you. You desperately thrash against their hold, trying to remove the intrusive line from your body, but it’s no use; your injuries and the numerous drugs running through your system hamper your movements. You hear muffled explanations— inaudible to your clouded mind— before they decide to sedate you. You drift back into slumber. 

Sometime later, you wake up again, this time with the IV detached and a familiar face sitting casually by your bedside. You do a double take at the silver-haired man. And you laugh. You must be in some sort of dream or coma-induced hallucination. Because why was Sylus, a love interest from Love and Deepspace— the game you have been obsessed with for the past few months— sitting here in flesh and blood? You say as much, and he deigns you with the response, “Did you sustain brain damage on top of your other injuries?”

You shake your head at the absurdity of your delusions, quickly falling back into a medically-induced sleep. Things should be back to normal when you wake up.

—————————————————————

Newsflash: they weren’t. As days passed, you gradually had to accept that— whether reality or not— you were going to be stuck here until you figured out how to return to your world. 

Sylus visits you from time to time, the strange girl who landed in his backyard and claims to be from another world. It turns out that the place you’ve woken up in is not a hospital, but Onychinus’s medical ward. Your conversations are minimal, mostly veiled threats as he questions your intentions and identity. “I’ll give you one last chance,” He exhales in frustration as he interrogates you for the hundredth time, “To explain why you’ve trespassed here, before I decide for myself.” 

“…I didn’t want to die?” You answer meekly. You don’t have the heart to tell him he’s not being as menacing as he thinks he is, hovering over a patient confined to their hospital bed. You take a spoonful of your pudding when he looks away. Better than hospital food back home, at least.

There's little you can say that won’t make him think you’ve gone mad. But, maybe you are. A strong part of you believes that any moment, you’ll be waking up in a padded room, wearing a straitjacket.

You spend your days drifting in and out of sleep, staring out the window into the underbelly of the N109 Zone. Each day you awaken to the sight of the dark cityscape fills you with disappointment and dread, as you realize this may not be a dream. You miss the warmth of your own bed. You miss the soft daylight streaming into your apartment. (You miss home.) 

When you’ve healed enough to be discharged, you have nowhere to go. So you turn to the only person you’re familiar with in this world.  

You corner him in the hallway outside your room, dressed in the ill-fitting clothes given to you. (The ones you wore during the accident couldn’t be salvaged, they said, handing the torn and bloody garments to you. Your only possessions in this world, now ruined.) You fidget with your hands, daring yourself to look him in the eye. “I don't have a lot of work experience, but…” You earnestly list off all of the projects and internships you’ve undertaken in the previous years, selling your skills with the desperation of someone who has nowhere else to go. 

You were just a college student, months away from graduation before you found yourself here. Your life was tiring; an endless backlog of readings and back-to-back assignments waiting for you at the end of each day, the pressure to succeed constantly weighing down on your conscience. But despite it all, it was a fulfilling life; working every day to the bone in order to achieve your dreams. 

Now, it fills you with spite— how everything you had worked hard for was taken away in the blink of an eye. But you push the bitterness aside, offering whatever skills you have to Sylus so he doesn’t kick you out. You know that this world isn’t kind, the N109 Zone being one of the worst places you could have ended up. A normal civilian such as you wouldn’t be able to survive here alone.

You don’t spare a breath until the very end of your spiel, “—and, it would only have to be until I find a way to return home,” You finish. All the while, you’re hiding your anxiety; because how exactly do you get home? (A part of you cruelly whispers: if you can.) 

“Pretty please?” You add with a grimace, when the silence becomes overwhelming. 

He looks at you with cruel amusement, chin tilted down like a king with a peasant at his feet. The Sylus of Love and Deepspace may have been a devoted lover, but the man in front of you now is a cold and ruthless criminal. He takes a step forward— you think he plans to rid you from his sight, when he says, “Don’t make me regret it.” 

—————————————————————

Though you don’t have much to contribute to a criminal organization, you’re grateful when Sylus offers you the job of his personal secretary. 

The past few weeks before the accident had been spent in the post-holiday rush of schoolwork. With only your job to keep you occupied now, you’ve never found yourself with so much time on your hands. Years of building time management skills helps you to cope with the high-paced nature of this world, so you put your whole blood, sweat, and tears into this job, repaying Sylus’s generosity with your efforts to earn your keep around here. 

As his personal assistant, you have no precedent to follow because Sylus just… does everything on his own. Despite the number of minions and associates he has at his disposal, when it comes to his personal business, Sylus is a one-man army. So, you insert yourself into his workflow and commandeer his schedule; the man doesn’t even have a calendar, for crying out loud. Although you don’t have much work experience, your previous internships and methodical nature help you to excel at this job. Never has the leader of Onychinus been so…. organized, his colleagues and associates observe the stark change in the following months. 

“Miss Secretary,” Luke and Kieran affectionately call you, “What’s your secret to dealing with the bossman?” They ask, in dramatically hushed whispers. 

Sylus was untouchable— unrivaled at his job— which often enabled his imperious disregard for everyone else’s time and patience. Being late or completely missing meetings if something he deems more important arises (an auction for a vintage record is not something you deem important enough over an executive meeting), expecting his minions to accomplish the impossible in a matter of days. “I did the heavy lifting, surely you can manage the scraps,” He drawls from his leather, ergonomic chair, looking bored to bits. 

Though you already knew this from your time playing the game, it was different to experience it, and extremely more difficult to tolerate.

But you’ve dealt with worse in the form of freeloader group mates and hard-headed cousins. Over time, you whip him up to shape, scolding him when he arrives late to meetings, making sure he actually calls back when he says he will. “And what if I don't?” He asked with an edged smile on his face, the first time you admonished him. 

As you learned with your experience with children over the years: disappointment hits harder than anger. You cross your arms, holding back your true frustration. “Well, you’d be making mine and everyone else’s job ten times harder. And I would think much less of you.” You thought you’d get sacked the moment the words came out of your mouth. 

But instead, momentary shock flitted through his eyes— a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face. “Well, I can't have my lovely secretary think so lowly of me, now can I?” He gave you a demeaning pat on the head, your irritation coming back in full swing. 

Over time, you grow to have a deeper respect for Sylus and how he runs Onychinus. He surprisingly takes criticism very well. At least, when it comes from you. You vividly remember the time he used his evol on an associate who dared to criticize his business practices. (He was being rude, anyway.) Neither is he the type to exaggerate his capabilities, easily admitting to his limitations. “I suppose I’ll have to learn then,” Is his attitude when it comes to his shortcomings, and you admire it. 

However, none of this stops him from being a bastard from time to time and making your job harder than it needed to be.

—————————————————————

Once Sylus started entrusting you with more responsibilities, you started handling his work line. His business partners now call his office to be greeted by a chirpy voice, “You’ve reached the Onychinus hotline, how may I help you? Oh, Sylus isn’t here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

This especially came in handy when certain little rats wouldn’t stop bothering him on the phone. “You want to know if he’ll attend the anniversary ball on the 21st?” You made eye contact with him across the room. He immediately shook his head, as he caught wind of the brown-nosing colleague who couldn’t take a hint. “He’s not here right now, unfortunately. I'll get back to you through email as soon as I can.” (You never did.) 

Another new responsibility you’ve been given is to mediate dissatisfied clients. You’re surprisingly good at it; sometimes he wonders if you’ve taken some sort of PR training before. With how you handle these grown men acting like children without offending them, you’re either the most patient person to exist or very discreetly planning murder. He would’ve just resorted to threats of maiming (and execution of said threats when necessary). It makes things a lot easier since— according to you— his abrasive personality creates more problems than necessary. 

He initially gave you this job as more of a placeholder role, so you can occupy yourself with the illusion of real responsibility while he investigates his suspicions about you. Where did you come from? Who sent you? And most importantly, how did you manage to infiltrate his base right under his nose? But his investigation leads him to the simple truth: there was nothing on you. It’s as if you materialized from thin air. No records, no blood ties, no evidence of your existence before you walked into his life. 

But if reincarnation can be fact, and dragons more than legends, why deny the possibility of other realities? This, more than anything, makes him inclined to believe your claims. 

Besides, you’ve proven yourself to be… useful, he can admit. You easily adjust to his nocturnal schedule; like another little crow chirping from his shoulder at all times of the day. 

“Chop chop, Sylus! You have a 9 o’clock meeting at The Nest and it’s already 8:30,” You storm into his office to remind him. You can count on both hands the number of times you’ve had to overhaul his schedule into oblivion because of a single missed meeting. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” He idly spins in his chair, with no intention of leaving anytime soon. “It’ll only take me fifteen minutes.” 

You whipped your head at him in alarm, “I’d rather you not break the speed limits to get there on time.”

It takes you one look at his daily schedule to nag him about his more concerning eating habits, even going so far as to ask his preferred meals to inform the chefs in advance. “Are you going to explain to me why you’ve spent two whole hours on a single meal?” You sit across from him at the table; stunned would be an understatement at how you feel seeing all the empty plates surrounding him. 

He huffs. It’s not his fault his more… draconic habits carried over into this life. “Can I not even have my lunch in peace?” 

“At least space your meals out. Or eat dinner. You’re going to get hunger pangs before you go to bed, at this rate.”

Sometimes, you even resort to physically forcing him out of his office the moment noon hits, in an attempt to prevent him from overworking, “Sun’s up, boss. It’s time to hit the sack.” He’s long since learned not to fight you on this. Even if your attempts to push at his back are puny, at best. 

Your days together go by in this peacefully chaotic nature; your presence likening to a storm that has come to uproot his life. He pays you egregious amounts of money to make his job easier, and in turn, you make sure he’s fed, well-rested, and most importantly, aware of his goddamn schedule. 

It helps that your office is connected to his, although it's less a room and more an alcove he cleared away when he gave you the job. You have a small desk, a fluffy swivel chair, and a shelf covered in the trinkets you spend your salary on. (Another thing you have in common with Mephisto, he notes to the ever-growing list.) 

He could shut the doors to your “reception area,” as he likes to call it, but he finds amusement to idly watch you during his downtime. Your desk is in the perfect position to observe you from the corner of his eye. It had been a strategic decision, when he knew nothing of you or your intentions. Now, it’s become a pastime for him to watch you and your silly habits. Twirling the strands of your hair and chewing your pen, as you talk on the phone about weapons shipments and insuring someone who lost a finger in an operation. 

He’s not accustomed to being in such close quarters with someone, to letting someone into the crevices of his life. Yet slowly but surely, you weave your way into not only his work, but into the threads of his everyday existence. You leave your mark all throughout his home; from small trinkets magically finding their way onto random surfaces, your sweater claiming its new home on the couch armrest, a new mug in your favorite color left in the kitchen sink. Sometimes he can tell you’ve just left a room, when he inhales the lingering traces of your perfume. 

Your presence slips its way into that of his found family, too. The moment you laid eyes on Mephisto, the mechanical crow had immediately claimed a soft spot in your heart. You affectionately call him Mephie. From feeding him tiny bites of your dinner (he doesn’t have the heart to tell you he can’t digest food), to finding shiny trinkets such as coins and jewelry to add to his collection, you’re very close to displacing Sylus as the crow’s favorite in the house. 

Despite only being a few years older than Luke and Kieran— the exact middle between their and Sylus’s age— you both indulge and scold them. You join in on their pranks (you’re often the key to setting it up, what with your way around his schedule) but become extremely disappointed if their fun results in collateral damage; from a broken vase, to a rescheduled mission. Similar to Sylus, you keep them in check but stand right alongside them in the chaos. 

Contradictory to his initial expectations, you prove yourself in a professional capacity and cement your place in the ranks of Onychinus.

—————————————————————

The snow melts and spring creeps in, marking three months since you found yourself in this strange new world. Most days feel like a haze to you. Your secretarial duties keep your mind occupied, leaving little room for sorrow to settle in. But when you clock out and are left in solitude, your thoughts become your worst enemy. For that, you linger around the base a lot. Commandeering the kitchen to make midnight snacks, playing cards with Luke and Kieran in the living room, bothering Sylus when he’s cleaning his quarters. You toe the line for how much sleep you need to make it through the day— a bit hypocritical, you admit, given how you scold Sylus when he works at his office late into the night.

Misguided as it was, maybe it was a drop of fortune that you found yourself in his world. You’ve read stories of being transported to other worlds— of lions, witches, and wardrobes; of tornados, munchkins, and wicked witches. But the rabbit hole you’ve fallen down has been nothing like those tumultuous journeys. Your days in the office are warm and lovely— far from the crazed rush of deadlines and youthful chase of dreams you were living out in university, but a quiet contentment, nonetheless. Over time, you find yourself growing attached to the new life you’ve built, to the new family you’ve found. 

But the moment your head hits the pillow, it is the image of your family glued to the back of your eyelids. You see them worried sick about your disappearance, posting missing papers and wondering where you are, if you’ve become another statistic. (You don’t want to face the possibility that they may not be worried at all. That they may know exactly where you are, buried you there themselves.) For every smile and moment of laughter is a whisper in the back of your mind: Don’t you miss us? Don’t you miss home? 

You invest all your guilt and spare energy into combing through the hoard of resources at your disposal. The reach of your information is almost endless, with Onychinus being the reigning authority in the N109 Zone (and secretly, some cities, too). Yet, there’s nothing. Your search feels futile, each failed lead adding to your ever-growing hopelessness. 

During the day, no one would know any better; with how you hide your inner turmoil, composing yourself into your role as Sylus’s secretary. But your ghosts ambush you into the night. Nightmares plague you throughout your intermittent slumber, as you constantly arise from vivid memories of the accident and of your past life (of waking up and finding yourself six feet underground). Your anxieties have evolved from a restlessness to return to a growing fear of what might await you. 

One night, you find yourself near-suffocating under plush sheets, thrashing as you dream of dirt piling on top of you. Sorrowful figures shoveling you into the ground and muffling your pleas, I'm here. I'm still here. Your terror carries over into reality, a scream leaving your throat as you jolt up in bed, once again finding the sight of the cityscape before you— now a source of comfort, rather than despair.

An imaginative mind is a gift at best, and haunts you at worst. You stumble as you leave your bed, heart racing and the fictional taste of dirt still in your mouth. You feel that you will vomit if you stay here, in sweat soaked sheets and stuffy air. So you grab a coat and make your way to the rooftop, where you find that someone had the same thought as you.

“Can’t sleep?” Sylus asks with his back turned, having sensed your presence before you could make yourself known.

You ignore his question, breathing in the dew and the early March air, breezing past even in the barren cityscape of the N109 Zone. “It's late, why aren’t you in bed?”

“Why aren’t you?” He retorts, scooting over in a silent invitation. You shiver as you take a seat beside him on the cold metal bench.

“It’s nothing, really,” You shake your head, voice trembling as you try to voice the terror that had taken over you, “Just nightmares, you know. They happen sometimes…” 

Bathed under soft moonlight, he quietly admits, “I understand. I get them, too. I often find myself here when I can't go back to sleep, when it feels too stifling inside.” 

“Before, I used to be mad at myself for falling asleep. I had to pull a lot of all-nighters for college, back then,” You explain, hitting your feet against the metal leg of the bench. “There were only so many hours in a day, but so much left to do… It’s ironic. Now that I want to sleep, I can't.” You laugh, but it’s hollow and empty. 

“What is it that you dream about?” 

You muse upon it, “Home. My family and friends. I dream of my childhood home a lot, but those are the good dreams. But then there are ones about all the things I'll need to catch up with at university, when I return,” Everything you have lost. Everything that was taken away from you. You laugh, thinking about it, “Those are the real nightmares. My to-do list is going to be taller than me once I get back. But what about you?”

A bittersweet smile paints his face, “Oh, the usual. Just about everything I've done wrong in my existence.”

You gasp dramatically, slamming a fist to your chest, “The great ole’ Sylus, ruler of all that breathes and crawls in the zone, feeling guilt?”

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He playfully rolls his eyes, before turning somber once again, “I feel regret, maybe, at what I could have done differently. Sometimes I dream of turning back time.” He dreams of his days inside the chapel, a short refuge within a terrible era of this world. Is it so wrong that he wishes to return to it? To live within that bubble of peace forever? 

“That’s interesting. I don't know if anything would change if I could turn back time… I have a feeling I'd still be where I am.” Unease grows within you the more time passes. That however hard you try, you are bound to the direction you’re headed in. (That you have been for a while.)

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, as the two of you gaze at the nocturne before you. You stare into the sea of lights glittering below, headlights and neon signs glowing within the city that never rests. They blur together, these lights. Soft colors of blue, green, red, growing ever duller until you find yourself falling back into a peaceful slumber. 

—————————————————————

He sits in quiet tranquility, your slumbering figure resting on his shoulder, the smell of your shampoo overwhelming his senses. Once you’re sound asleep, he carries you back to your bedroom, careful not to disturb the long sought-for sleep you had just achieved.

What was once a potential threat is now precious cargo in his arms, muttering incomprehensible murmurs in her sleep. How can someone be so harmless and lovely? He thinks, brushing aside your stray wisps of hair. As he walks down the opulent halls of his home, he muses on how, like a storm rolling in, you have swept your way into his life. He lays you in your bed, tucking you gently underneath the cotton sheets. 

It happens here, during the first breath of spring after winter, as he gazes upon your soft form. For the first time in a millennia, he feels the quiet stirrings of his heart, beating for something he cannot yet name. 

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