Inkandtension - June, 18 - Tumblr Blog

New fic incoming!

Thank you!! I'm glad!!

I Just Killed My Ex

Mentally Unstable! Hyunjin x Psychopath! Reader

warning: mentions of killing, and violence

You stood over the lifeless body, your breath steady and unnervingly calm. His eyes remained wide open, frozen in an expression of shock and betrayal, reflecting the pale moonlight that filtered through the thick canopy of trees. The woods, dark and dense, loomed around you, swallowing all other sounds except the distant rustling of leaves and the soft hoot of an owl. The woods had always been his greatest fear, ever since he was a child. That’s why you chose this place. You lured him here with the perfect bait—promises of a romantic evening, the illusion of affection that he so desperately craved.

The blade in your hand glistened, slick with the blood you’d just spilled, each crimson droplet sliding down its length with a kind of grace. You glanced down at the handle, the smooth wood fitting comfortably in your grip, before shifting your gaze back to him. A slow smile tugged at your lips, curling them into a smirk as you admired your handiwork.

"Y/N… why the woods? You know I hate it here, it’s too dark…," he'd whined earlier, his voice trembling with the same unease you’d always found so irritating. You remembered the way his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, as if expecting the shadows to leap out at him.

You had chuckled softly at his discomfort, leaning in close to murmur sweetly, "Why are you scared?" Your hand had traced lazy, gentle patterns down his arm, a gesture that once reassured him. "I’m the one who’s going to have to walk back alone."

The way his brow furrowed in confusion, the slight quiver in his lips as he tried to make sense of your words—it was almost too easy.

"W-What?" he had stammered, the fear creeping into his voice.

But he never got an answer.

His hands had reached up, grasping weakly at your wrists as though that could stop you. You watched, emotionless, as the light slowly faded from his eyes. The strength in his grip loosened, his arms falling limply to his sides.

Now, as you stood over him, the wind ruffled your hair, carrying away the metallic scent of blood. The darkness of the woods no longer seemed menacing to you—it was a sanctuary. You had planned every detail, down to the exact moment the moon would be highest in the sky, casting its cold light over your final act.

The shadows embraced you, and for the first time in a long while, you felt in control. You knelt beside him, wiping the blade clean on his shirt, then stood again, taking in the stillness of the night. His body was just another part of the landscape now, another piece of the scene you had made.

Without a second glance, you turned and walked away, the leaves crunching softly underfoot. You wouldn’t be walking back alone after all—not really. His fear had died with him, but yours? Yours had just begun to bloom.

You stared down at the body, your breath now coming in measured, calculated intervals as the reality of what needed to be done next settled in. The blade still shone in your hand, but its purpose had been fulfilled. Now, it was just dead weight, like him. The woods were vast, dark, and suffocating, but you couldn’t leave him here. No. He had to come back with you. This wasn’t over yet.

With a sigh, you crouched beside him, brushing aside the stray twigs and leaves that clung to his clothes. His lifeless body looked heavier now, limp and uncooperative. You grabbed him by the ankles, testing his weight with a small tug. The thought crossed your mind briefly—how odd it was to be this close to someone you once shared intimate moments with, now reduced to a mere object, something to be moved, disposed of.

The first tug was awkward, his legs dragging across the forest floor with a dull scrape. The sound was unsettling but strangely satisfying, the friction against the earth a reminder of his final resistance. You adjusted your grip, digging your heels into the dirt for leverage, and began the grueling process of pulling him through the trees. His body bumped over roots and uneven ground, his head lolling to one side, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

You glanced over your shoulder occasionally, scanning for any signs of movement, for any witnesses that might be lurking in the darkness. The woods were silent, save for the sounds of your labor and the occasional distant hoot of an owl. Each pull sent a surge of adrenaline through you, driving you forward.

It wasn’t long before the clearing came into view, the distant outline of the city lights barely visible through the gaps in the trees. You had parked your car far enough away that no one would suspect anything, but close enough that you could still manage to get him inside without drawing too much attention. You hadn’t planned on him being this heavy, though. The trek felt longer, more arduous with each step, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled the physical strain.

After what felt like hours, you finally reached the edge of the woods. His body was covered in dirt and leaves now, his clothes torn from being dragged across the rough terrain. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at the car, hidden just out of sight, parked along a secluded stretch of road. The hardest part was yet to come.

You heaved him up into the trunk, your muscles screaming in protest as you shoved him inside. The thud of his body hitting the metal interior echoed in the night, but no one was around to hear. You slammed the trunk shut, the sound final, like a door closing on this chapter.

Back at the apartment, you parked in the underground lot, grateful for the late hour and the quiet that enveloped the building. You moved swiftly, methodically, hauling his body from the trunk and into the elevator, avoiding the security cameras you had already noted during your planning. His weight dragged behind you, a burden both literal and symbolic, as you made your way to the door.

Once inside, you exhaled, surveying the dimly lit space. The apartment felt too clean, too pristine, as though it had been waiting for this. You wiped your hands on your black jeans, smearing them with dirt and blood, and turned your gaze to the body lying in the middle of the room.

This was your sanctuary, your carefully curated life, and he was the one thing that didn’t belong anymore. But now, it was his final resting place. His presence here would serve a new purpose.

With a grim determination, you dragged him across the floor one last time, positioning him where you wanted—just another piece in your plan.

The hospital loomed in the distance, its sterile glow cutting through the night like a beacon. A smart choice, really—neutral ground where you could blend in and buy yourself time. No one would suspect you here. Hospitals were filled with people consumed by their own tragedies, chaos and misery woven into the very walls. It would be easy to slip through unnoticed, another face among the wounded and weary.

The stench of iron clung to you, lingering in the air like some perverse perfume. Blood, still warm, dripped slowly from your fingertips, splattering onto the cold pavement with each step. The sound of it hitting the ground was faint, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic, but to you, it might as well have been a drumbeat echoing your guilt. Your black clothes, chosen with care for their ability to conceal, now felt heavy, saturated with the evidence of your crime. The fabric stuck to your skin, wet and uncomfortable, the drying blood forming a layer that made your every movement feel deliberate. You could feel it like a second layer of skin, invisible to everyone but yourself.

You walked toward the hospital’s entrance, the automatic doors hissing open as you approached, like a mechanical sigh welcoming you into a world of antiseptic smells and soft murmurs. The fluorescent lights were harsh against your bloodshot eyes, casting everything in a cold, sterile light that contrasted sharply with the warmth of the blood that still clung to you. But no one looked twice. The rush of nurses, doctors, and patients barely spared a glance in your direction. To them, you were just another face, just another body passing through.

The blood from your ex seeped through your clothes in places, sticky and warm, though no one noticed. Not yet. Your dark attire hid the worst of it, but you could still feel it, the wet patches where his life had spilled over and marked you as something other than innocent. You kept walking, your pace steady but not hurried. Panic would give you away. You couldn’t afford that. Not now.

He had to die.

The thought repeated in your mind, a mantra of justification, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—yourself or the ghost of him that still lingered in your thoughts. His face flickered across your memory, that familiar sneer curling his lips, the look of disdain that he always wore when he talked to you. That condescending tone, the way he spoke as though every word you said was meaningless, as though you were some toy to be played with and discarded. His cruelty had always been so subtle, so artful. He never hit you, never screamed at you. No, he was much smarter than that.

He twisted your thoughts until you didn’t know where his desires ended and yours began. He made you doubt yourself, question everything you once held dear. Slowly, over time, he chipped away at you, stripping you down until you were a hollow version of the person you used to be. You tried to leave, once. You packed your bags, stood in the doorway, but he had stopped you with nothing more than a few choice words—a promise to change, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made you second-guess everything. You had been weak then, afraid. But not anymore.

Now, you were free.

But freedom came with a price, and as you stood in the sterile hospital hallway, the weight of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. You could almost feel his ghost following you, whispering in your ear, telling you that you would never really escape him. He would haunt you, a constant presence, until the guilt consumed you whole. But you didn’t care. You could live with the guilt. It was better than living with him.

You moved through the hospital with purpose, though each step felt heavier than the last. Every door you passed felt like an invitation to turn back, to undo the irreversible, but you pushed forward. You knew why you had come here, knew that the hospital wasn’t just a hiding place—it was a temporary refuge from the storm that raged inside you.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you approached the front desk, the buzz of the hospital growing quieter in your ears as your mind raced. You leaned against the counter, feigning calm as you scanned the waiting room, your pulse thrumming under your skin. It was busy—families waiting for news, doctors rushing between patients, nurses scribbling down charts. No one cared about the woman in bloodstained black clothes who had just walked through the doors. Not yet.

You tapped your fingers against the counter, your mind flickering back to his face once more. You saw the sneer again, heard his voice—the way he’d called you pathetic, small. But not this time. This time, you had made sure he would never speak again. And as the hospital buzzed with life around you, you felt a twisted sense of satisfaction settle in your chest. He was gone, and you were still here.

You were still free. But for how long?

"Good evening, how can I help you?" the nurse chirped, her voice unnervingly bright, the kind of overused politeness that made her seem robotic. She had no idea who you were, no idea what you had done just hours ago. And that was the beauty of it.

"I’d like to donate blood," you replied smoothly, your voice soft but unwavering. You kept your expression neutral, even innocent, as if nothing in the world could be out of place.

The nurse blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the request. "Oh, sure… um, we just need to take your vitals first. If you’ll follow me—"

"No need," you cut her off with a slight wave of your hand, tilting your head with genuine confusion, as if she had suggested something absurd. "I’ve got plenty of blood at home. I can bring it in buckets if you want."

Her face changed in an instant. The nurse’s eyes widened, her friendly mask cracking as she tried to process what you had just said. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the hospital walls behind her. Her hands trembled—ever so slightly—but enough for you to notice, enough to spark that amusement inside you.

She stammered, trying to find her voice, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, she mumbled something under her breath, barely audible, and then turned on her heel, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she hurried away toward the back room. You watched her flee, your eyes following her retreating figure as she scurried off like a frightened animal.

The sight amused you. She was weak, terrified—just like him.

A cruel smirk crept across your face, spreading slowly as you leaned back against the counter. You could still see the look on her face, the way her hands shook as she fumbled to escape your presence. People like her were so easy to scare, so fragile. All it took was a few carefully chosen words, a subtle shift in tone, and they crumbled.

You glanced around the waiting area, the sterile atmosphere now tinged with your silent amusement. It was almost too easy. You had come here to buy time, to distance yourself from the body you had left behind, but this… this was a bonus. Watching people break under the weight of their own fear, just like he had, gave you a sense of control. It reminded you that you weren’t weak anymore.

The nurse hadn’t returned, and you doubted she would. The idea of her cowering in the back room, trying to explain what had just happened to her colleagues, made you chuckle under your breath. You imagined her recounting the conversation, her voice shaking, her eyes darting around in fear that you might still be lurking.

You leaned against the counter, waiting patiently, your smirk never fading.

Not long after, an older nurse emerged from the same door, her hair white as snow, her movements slow. There was something about her—a quiet strength, a knowing look in her eyes that came from years of experience. She wasn’t like the younger nurse who had fled in terror. No, this woman had seen her fair share of strange things. She wouldn’t be easily shaken.

"My dear," she said, her voice soft and warm, approaching you with a gentle smile. "Don’t mind that young one. She’s easily spooked. You seem like a lovely girl. Kind. Strong. This generation’s a bit misunderstood, but you all have good hearts deep down."

You blinked, her words falling over you like syrup, thick and sweet. Kind? She was calling you kind? The irony of it curled inside your chest like a snake ready to strike. The words dripped from her lips, heavy with patronizing sympathy, as though she thought she could read you—like you were some lost child she could save with a few soft-spoken reassurances.

"You're kind."

"Kind," you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue in a whisper of disbelief, tasting bitter, soaked in irony. Did she even know what she was saying? Could she sense the darkness lurking beneath your skin, or was she blind to it? You almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The older nurse’s smile never wavered. She reached out and squeezed your shoulder, the gesture meant to comfort, but all you could feel was the weight of her hand—a reminder of the blood that still clung to you, the blood she had no idea was there.

Then her fingers brushed against something wet, and her smile faltered. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, her expression shifting as she looked down at her palm. Blood. Dark, sticky blood smeared across her skin, clinging to her fingers like the evidence of a sin too great to be washed away. Her face drained of color, the warmth that had once been in her eyes replaced with a growing sense of dread.

Her gaze flicked from her hand to your face, and in that moment, the truth crashed into her like a slow, suffocating wave. She knew.

But she didn’t say a word. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. It was as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs, as if her mind was trying to grasp the horror of what stood in front of her but couldn’t quite catch up.

And then, like an omen, the distant sound of sirens broke the silence. Faint at first, but growing louder, closer. They were coming. For you.

The nurse’s eyes widened, panic finally creeping into her expression. You could see it—the fear, the dawning horror that spread across her face as the reality of the situation settled in. She had touched the blood. His blood. And now, she understood.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She just stood there, frozen in disbelief, her eyes locked onto yours, as though she were trying to reconcile the image of the "kind, strong" girl she had seen with the truth of what you had done.

You let your gaze linger on her, savoring the moment, the way her confidence crumbled under the weight of her realization. Her world was shattering in slow motion, and you… you were the cause.

With a soft, almost cruel smile, you turned away, your steps calm, measured, as if the sirens weren’t growing louder with every passing second. You could feel the nurse’s eyes on you, still too stunned to move, too overwhelmed to react. It was perfect. The fear, the silence, the power you held in that fleeting moment.

But you didn’t have time to relish it. The sirens were closing in, and you needed to disappear. Without a glance back, you slipped out the hospital doors and into the night, leaving the nurse—and everything she now knew—behind.

Without thinking, you bolted, pushing through the hallway doors as the wail of sirens grew louder, chasing you through the sterile corridors. Your heart pounded in your chest, every step echoing against the cold tile floors. You needed a way out, fast.

You ran deeper into the hospital, barely aware of your surroundings, just desperate to escape. Rounding a corner, you slammed into someone—a tall, thin man in a hospital uniform. His face was pale, almost sickly, and his hair was a wild mess, framing his hollow eyes. He looked like he had been here far too long. A mental patient.

"Watch it," you muttered, trying to shove past him. But he just stood there, unmoving, his gaze shifting from your face to the floor beneath you. It was as if he could see through you, into the blood-soaked secret you carried.

Without a second thought, you grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—a laundry room, dimly lit and cluttered with piles of clothes. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, casting a sickly glow over everything.

Slamming the door shut behind you, you pulled out your knife and pressed it against his throat. The blade still had traces of blood on it, glistening under the light.

"Take off your clothes," you ordered, your voice cold and unflinching. You needed to blend in, to disappear before the sirens reached the hospital.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Slowly, almost too calmly, he began to undress, his movements methodical, his gaze never leaving yours. There was something in his eyes, amusement gleaming in them, as if he found the entire situation entertaining.

When he was down to his undergarments, he sat on the wet floor, folding his legs beneath him like a child. His stare never wavered. He watched you with a kind of fascination as you tore off your blood-soaked clothes, swapping them for his. The fabric was cold against your skin, damp from the humidity of the room. As you changed, you noticed the water on the floor—the blood from your clothes seeping into it, swirling like red ink in a puddle.

His eyes became crescent moons as he saw it too. His lips curled into a small, smile. "That’s not your blood, is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with delight, as though the truth excited him.

"No," you replied simply, pulling the patient uniform over your body. "It’s not."

The room fell into silence, save for the soft dripping of water and the distant hum of the hospital around you. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with curiosity, his mind racing to understand you, to piece together the kind of person you must be.

He looked down at the bloodied water, his grin widening. "You killed someone."

You shot him a cold glare, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed even more excited by your reaction.

"I like you," he murmured, his voice dark and playful, like a child discovering a new toy. "Take me with you."

"No." Your response was immediate, firm.

As you moved toward the door, his hand shot out, grabbing your ankle with surprising strength. His grip was tight, almost desperate. "Take me with you," he repeated, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of determination.

Your eyes narrowed, your grip tightening on the knife. "No."

He stood up, quick and agile, pulling clothes from a nearby pile and dressing himself in them as though he had planned for this all along. "If you don’t take me," he said, his tone light, almost sing-song, "I’ll scream."

The threat hung in the air between you. You stared at him, your mind racing. He was unstable, that much was clear. But he wasn’t lying. He would scream, and the sirens were already too close. If he screamed, you’d be caught. You didn’t have a choice.

"You're insane," you muttered, your voice filled with frustration.

He grinned, a wild, manic grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe. But if you don’t take me, I’ll scream."

"Fine," you growled, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet. You didn’t have time to argue. You had to get out, and now, he was coming with you whether you liked it or not.

You rushed to your car, the man—Hyunjin—you had asked in a hurry, following close behind, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Once inside, you sped off, leaving the hospital behind, the distant wail of sirens fading into the night.

The drive to your house was silent, tension filling the small space between you. Hyunjin sat next to you, his eyes flitting between the road and your hands on the steering wheel, a barely concealed excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

When you finally pulled up to your house, you led him inside. He followed closely, his eyes scanning the space—until they landed on the body.

Your ex, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

Hyunjin let out a delighted whistle. "You’ve been busy."

You shot him a glare, you walked over to the body, nudging it with your foot. His head fell to the side when Hyunjin tried to touch his face and the blood fell on your shoes. You ran your foot over the dead man's shirt to wipe off the blood.

"He deserved it."

"I’m sure he did," Hyunjin said, his voice dripping with amusement. "And now what? We just… live with it?"

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. "You’re not going to run?" you asked, curious.

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I? You’re interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yes," he said, stepping closer to you. "You’re like me, you're fun." His eyes gleamed with that same unsettling light from before. "We could be good together, you know."

You stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words. He was dangerous, unpredictable. But then again, so were you.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone like him around.

...

The door slams behind you as you enter the apartment, your pulse racing with the thrill of what you’ve just done. There’s a certain satisfaction lingering on your lips, a wicked smile you can’t quite hide.

You step over to the mirror, admiring the streaks of blood on your cheek. Not yours, of course. Never yours. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as you lean closer to your reflection.

"Beautiful."

The voice startles you, and you turn to find Hyunjin lounging on the couch, his head tilted as he watches you, eyes glittering with something. He looks far too calm, for someone who just saw you walk in like this.

"Is that why you're still here?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because I’m a monster?"

His lips curve up into a slow, smile, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "Because you’re the only one who makes me feel alive," he says, voice as smooth as velvet, dripping with sweetness.

"Isn’t that what you wanted? To save me?"

You walk toward him slowly, every step deliberate, predatory. "I didn’t save you, Hyunjin, you begged me to get you outta there."

Hyunjin’s fingers trace along the edge of the couch, his gaze unwavering. There’s a flicker of madness behind his calm exterior, one that mirrors your own. It’s what drew you to him in the first place. The way he teeters on the edge of insanity, always so close to falling, but never quite letting go.

"Maybe that’s why I like you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Because I want you to break me completely."

You laugh, the sound echoing through the room, cold and hollow. "You say that, but can you handle me, Hyunjin?"

He stands, slow, until he’s towering over you. His fingers brush your cheek, lingering over the blood like a lover’s touch. "Why do you think I’ve stayed?" His lips are close to your ear now, his breath hot against your skin. "I crave the chaos. I crave you."

You can feel the tension in the air between you two, the dangerous pull of your shared madness. There’s a sick beauty in it, the way you both destroy and rebuild each other, over and over again. No one else would understand it. No one else would survive it.

"You’ll fall apart," you warn, even as your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see it — the madness, the desperation. It’s consuming him, just like it’s consumed you.

"Then let me fall," he murmurs, his voice heavy with longing. "Let me fall into you, Y/N."

Your grip tightens, and for a moment, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence.

Then, Hyunjin smiles —while smearing that blood on your face a little more— that wicked, broken smile that matches yours so perfectly. You press your lips to his, hard and unforgiving, feeling his breath hitch as the weight of your shared insanity finally crashes down.

There’s no redemption here. Just sweet surrender.

Together.

happiest birthday, christopher chan ♡ 1997.10.03

template credits: x x

Happy Bang Chan Day!! 🎧

2024.10.03

Here’s your one minute trailer of stray kids..

id give a baked onion about you though, entrails and all

Put a secret in my ask box.

Hey there, it always brings such a smile to my face when you like my shitposts hehe

Thanks!!!

UwU I’m happy I make you smile!

Ya'll i just spent 7 hours writing literally like 5 paragraphs because I kept rewriting it over and over and it's still not perfect 😃

There is something magnificent about creating an entire universe just from the words in your mind

My brain is really feeling liquid smooth right now

I Just Killed My Ex

Mentally Unstable! Hyunjin x Psychopath! Reader

warning: mentions of killing, and violence

You stood over the lifeless body, your breath steady and unnervingly calm. His eyes remained wide open, frozen in an expression of shock and betrayal, reflecting the pale moonlight that filtered through the thick canopy of trees. The woods, dark and dense, loomed around you, swallowing all other sounds except the distant rustling of leaves and the soft hoot of an owl. The woods had always been his greatest fear, ever since he was a child. That’s why you chose this place. You lured him here with the perfect bait—promises of a romantic evening, the illusion of affection that he so desperately craved.

The blade in your hand glistened, slick with the blood you’d just spilled, each crimson droplet sliding down its length with a kind of grace. You glanced down at the handle, the smooth wood fitting comfortably in your grip, before shifting your gaze back to him. A slow smile tugged at your lips, curling them into a smirk as you admired your handiwork.

"Y/N… why the woods? You know I hate it here, it’s too dark…," he'd whined earlier, his voice trembling with the same unease you’d always found so irritating. You remembered the way his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, as if expecting the shadows to leap out at him.

You had chuckled softly at his discomfort, leaning in close to murmur sweetly, "Why are you scared?" Your hand had traced lazy, gentle patterns down his arm, a gesture that once reassured him. "I’m the one who’s going to have to walk back alone."

The way his brow furrowed in confusion, the slight quiver in his lips as he tried to make sense of your words—it was almost too easy.

"W-What?" he had stammered, the fear creeping into his voice.

But he never got an answer.

His hands had reached up, grasping weakly at your wrists as though that could stop you. You watched, emotionless, as the light slowly faded from his eyes. The strength in his grip loosened, his arms falling limply to his sides.

Now, as you stood over him, the wind ruffled your hair, carrying away the metallic scent of blood. The darkness of the woods no longer seemed menacing to you—it was a sanctuary. You had planned every detail, down to the exact moment the moon would be highest in the sky, casting its cold light over your final act.

The shadows embraced you, and for the first time in a long while, you felt in control. You knelt beside him, wiping the blade clean on his shirt, then stood again, taking in the stillness of the night. His body was just another part of the landscape now, another piece of the scene you had made.

Without a second glance, you turned and walked away, the leaves crunching softly underfoot. You wouldn’t be walking back alone after all—not really. His fear had died with him, but yours? Yours had just begun to bloom.

You stared down at the body, your breath now coming in measured, calculated intervals as the reality of what needed to be done next settled in. The blade still shone in your hand, but its purpose had been fulfilled. Now, it was just dead weight, like him. The woods were vast, dark, and suffocating, but you couldn’t leave him here. No. He had to come back with you. This wasn’t over yet.

With a sigh, you crouched beside him, brushing aside the stray twigs and leaves that clung to his clothes. His lifeless body looked heavier now, limp and uncooperative. You grabbed him by the ankles, testing his weight with a small tug. The thought crossed your mind briefly—how odd it was to be this close to someone you once shared intimate moments with, now reduced to a mere object, something to be moved, disposed of.

The first tug was awkward, his legs dragging across the forest floor with a dull scrape. The sound was unsettling but strangely satisfying, the friction against the earth a reminder of his final resistance. You adjusted your grip, digging your heels into the dirt for leverage, and began the grueling process of pulling him through the trees. His body bumped over roots and uneven ground, his head lolling to one side, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

You glanced over your shoulder occasionally, scanning for any signs of movement, for any witnesses that might be lurking in the darkness. The woods were silent, save for the sounds of your labor and the occasional distant hoot of an owl. Each pull sent a surge of adrenaline through you, driving you forward.

It wasn’t long before the clearing came into view, the distant outline of the city lights barely visible through the gaps in the trees. You had parked your car far enough away that no one would suspect anything, but close enough that you could still manage to get him inside without drawing too much attention. You hadn’t planned on him being this heavy, though. The trek felt longer, more arduous with each step, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled the physical strain.

After what felt like hours, you finally reached the edge of the woods. His body was covered in dirt and leaves now, his clothes torn from being dragged across the rough terrain. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at the car, hidden just out of sight, parked along a secluded stretch of road. The hardest part was yet to come.

You heaved him up into the trunk, your muscles screaming in protest as you shoved him inside. The thud of his body hitting the metal interior echoed in the night, but no one was around to hear. You slammed the trunk shut, the sound final, like a door closing on this chapter.

Back at the apartment, you parked in the underground lot, grateful for the late hour and the quiet that enveloped the building. You moved swiftly, methodically, hauling his body from the trunk and into the elevator, avoiding the security cameras you had already noted during your planning. His weight dragged behind you, a burden both literal and symbolic, as you made your way to the door.

Once inside, you exhaled, surveying the dimly lit space. The apartment felt too clean, too pristine, as though it had been waiting for this. You wiped your hands on your black jeans, smearing them with dirt and blood, and turned your gaze to the body lying in the middle of the room.

This was your sanctuary, your carefully curated life, and he was the one thing that didn’t belong anymore. But now, it was his final resting place. His presence here would serve a new purpose.

With a grim determination, you dragged him across the floor one last time, positioning him where you wanted—just another piece in your plan.

The hospital loomed in the distance, its sterile glow cutting through the night like a beacon. A smart choice, really—neutral ground where you could blend in and buy yourself time. No one would suspect you here. Hospitals were filled with people consumed by their own tragedies, chaos and misery woven into the very walls. It would be easy to slip through unnoticed, another face among the wounded and weary.

The stench of iron clung to you, lingering in the air like some perverse perfume. Blood, still warm, dripped slowly from your fingertips, splattering onto the cold pavement with each step. The sound of it hitting the ground was faint, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic, but to you, it might as well have been a drumbeat echoing your guilt. Your black clothes, chosen with care for their ability to conceal, now felt heavy, saturated with the evidence of your crime. The fabric stuck to your skin, wet and uncomfortable, the drying blood forming a layer that made your every movement feel deliberate. You could feel it like a second layer of skin, invisible to everyone but yourself.

You walked toward the hospital’s entrance, the automatic doors hissing open as you approached, like a mechanical sigh welcoming you into a world of antiseptic smells and soft murmurs. The fluorescent lights were harsh against your bloodshot eyes, casting everything in a cold, sterile light that contrasted sharply with the warmth of the blood that still clung to you. But no one looked twice. The rush of nurses, doctors, and patients barely spared a glance in your direction. To them, you were just another face, just another body passing through.

The blood from your ex seeped through your clothes in places, sticky and warm, though no one noticed. Not yet. Your dark attire hid the worst of it, but you could still feel it, the wet patches where his life had spilled over and marked you as something other than innocent. You kept walking, your pace steady but not hurried. Panic would give you away. You couldn’t afford that. Not now.

He had to die.

The thought repeated in your mind, a mantra of justification, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—yourself or the ghost of him that still lingered in your thoughts. His face flickered across your memory, that familiar sneer curling his lips, the look of disdain that he always wore when he talked to you. That condescending tone, the way he spoke as though every word you said was meaningless, as though you were some toy to be played with and discarded. His cruelty had always been so subtle, so artful. He never hit you, never screamed at you. No, he was much smarter than that.

He twisted your thoughts until you didn’t know where his desires ended and yours began. He made you doubt yourself, question everything you once held dear. Slowly, over time, he chipped away at you, stripping you down until you were a hollow version of the person you used to be. You tried to leave, once. You packed your bags, stood in the doorway, but he had stopped you with nothing more than a few choice words—a promise to change, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made you second-guess everything. You had been weak then, afraid. But not anymore.

Now, you were free.

But freedom came with a price, and as you stood in the sterile hospital hallway, the weight of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. You could almost feel his ghost following you, whispering in your ear, telling you that you would never really escape him. He would haunt you, a constant presence, until the guilt consumed you whole. But you didn’t care. You could live with the guilt. It was better than living with him.

You moved through the hospital with purpose, though each step felt heavier than the last. Every door you passed felt like an invitation to turn back, to undo the irreversible, but you pushed forward. You knew why you had come here, knew that the hospital wasn’t just a hiding place—it was a temporary refuge from the storm that raged inside you.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you approached the front desk, the buzz of the hospital growing quieter in your ears as your mind raced. You leaned against the counter, feigning calm as you scanned the waiting room, your pulse thrumming under your skin. It was busy—families waiting for news, doctors rushing between patients, nurses scribbling down charts. No one cared about the woman in bloodstained black clothes who had just walked through the doors. Not yet.

You tapped your fingers against the counter, your mind flickering back to his face once more. You saw the sneer again, heard his voice—the way he’d called you pathetic, small. But not this time. This time, you had made sure he would never speak again. And as the hospital buzzed with life around you, you felt a twisted sense of satisfaction settle in your chest. He was gone, and you were still here.

You were still free. But for how long?

"Good evening, how can I help you?" the nurse chirped, her voice unnervingly bright, the kind of overused politeness that made her seem robotic. She had no idea who you were, no idea what you had done just hours ago. And that was the beauty of it.

"I’d like to donate blood," you replied smoothly, your voice soft but unwavering. You kept your expression neutral, even innocent, as if nothing in the world could be out of place.

The nurse blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the request. "Oh, sure… um, we just need to take your vitals first. If you’ll follow me—"

"No need," you cut her off with a slight wave of your hand, tilting your head with genuine confusion, as if she had suggested something absurd. "I’ve got plenty of blood at home. I can bring it in buckets if you want."

Her face changed in an instant. The nurse’s eyes widened, her friendly mask cracking as she tried to process what you had just said. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the hospital walls behind her. Her hands trembled—ever so slightly—but enough for you to notice, enough to spark that amusement inside you.

She stammered, trying to find her voice, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, she mumbled something under her breath, barely audible, and then turned on her heel, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she hurried away toward the back room. You watched her flee, your eyes following her retreating figure as she scurried off like a frightened animal.

The sight amused you. She was weak, terrified—just like him.

A cruel smirk crept across your face, spreading slowly as you leaned back against the counter. You could still see the look on her face, the way her hands shook as she fumbled to escape your presence. People like her were so easy to scare, so fragile. All it took was a few carefully chosen words, a subtle shift in tone, and they crumbled.

You glanced around the waiting area, the sterile atmosphere now tinged with your silent amusement. It was almost too easy. You had come here to buy time, to distance yourself from the body you had left behind, but this… this was a bonus. Watching people break under the weight of their own fear, just like he had, gave you a sense of control. It reminded you that you weren’t weak anymore.

The nurse hadn’t returned, and you doubted she would. The idea of her cowering in the back room, trying to explain what had just happened to her colleagues, made you chuckle under your breath. You imagined her recounting the conversation, her voice shaking, her eyes darting around in fear that you might still be lurking.

You leaned against the counter, waiting patiently, your smirk never fading.

Not long after, an older nurse emerged from the same door, her hair white as snow, her movements slow. There was something about her—a quiet strength, a knowing look in her eyes that came from years of experience. She wasn’t like the younger nurse who had fled in terror. No, this woman had seen her fair share of strange things. She wouldn’t be easily shaken.

"My dear," she said, her voice soft and warm, approaching you with a gentle smile. "Don’t mind that young one. She’s easily spooked. You seem like a lovely girl. Kind. Strong. This generation’s a bit misunderstood, but you all have good hearts deep down."

You blinked, her words falling over you like syrup, thick and sweet. Kind? She was calling you kind? The irony of it curled inside your chest like a snake ready to strike. The words dripped from her lips, heavy with patronizing sympathy, as though she thought she could read you—like you were some lost child she could save with a few soft-spoken reassurances.

"You're kind."

"Kind," you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue in a whisper of disbelief, tasting bitter, soaked in irony. Did she even know what she was saying? Could she sense the darkness lurking beneath your skin, or was she blind to it? You almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The older nurse’s smile never wavered. She reached out and squeezed your shoulder, the gesture meant to comfort, but all you could feel was the weight of her hand—a reminder of the blood that still clung to you, the blood she had no idea was there.

Then her fingers brushed against something wet, and her smile faltered. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, her expression shifting as she looked down at her palm. Blood. Dark, sticky blood smeared across her skin, clinging to her fingers like the evidence of a sin too great to be washed away. Her face drained of color, the warmth that had once been in her eyes replaced with a growing sense of dread.

Her gaze flicked from her hand to your face, and in that moment, the truth crashed into her like a slow, suffocating wave. She knew.

But she didn’t say a word. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. It was as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs, as if her mind was trying to grasp the horror of what stood in front of her but couldn’t quite catch up.

And then, like an omen, the distant sound of sirens broke the silence. Faint at first, but growing louder, closer. They were coming. For you.

The nurse’s eyes widened, panic finally creeping into her expression. You could see it—the fear, the dawning horror that spread across her face as the reality of the situation settled in. She had touched the blood. His blood. And now, she understood.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She just stood there, frozen in disbelief, her eyes locked onto yours, as though she were trying to reconcile the image of the "kind, strong" girl she had seen with the truth of what you had done.

You let your gaze linger on her, savoring the moment, the way her confidence crumbled under the weight of her realization. Her world was shattering in slow motion, and you… you were the cause.

With a soft, almost cruel smile, you turned away, your steps calm, measured, as if the sirens weren’t growing louder with every passing second. You could feel the nurse’s eyes on you, still too stunned to move, too overwhelmed to react. It was perfect. The fear, the silence, the power you held in that fleeting moment.

But you didn’t have time to relish it. The sirens were closing in, and you needed to disappear. Without a glance back, you slipped out the hospital doors and into the night, leaving the nurse—and everything she now knew—behind.

Without thinking, you bolted, pushing through the hallway doors as the wail of sirens grew louder, chasing you through the sterile corridors. Your heart pounded in your chest, every step echoing against the cold tile floors. You needed a way out, fast.

You ran deeper into the hospital, barely aware of your surroundings, just desperate to escape. Rounding a corner, you slammed into someone—a tall, thin man in a hospital uniform. His face was pale, almost sickly, and his hair was a wild mess, framing his hollow eyes. He looked like he had been here far too long. A mental patient.

"Watch it," you muttered, trying to shove past him. But he just stood there, unmoving, his gaze shifting from your face to the floor beneath you. It was as if he could see through you, into the blood-soaked secret you carried.

Without a second thought, you grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—a laundry room, dimly lit and cluttered with piles of clothes. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, casting a sickly glow over everything.

Slamming the door shut behind you, you pulled out your knife and pressed it against his throat. The blade still had traces of blood on it, glistening under the light.

"Take off your clothes," you ordered, your voice cold and unflinching. You needed to blend in, to disappear before the sirens reached the hospital.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Slowly, almost too calmly, he began to undress, his movements methodical, his gaze never leaving yours. There was something in his eyes, amusement gleaming in them, as if he found the entire situation entertaining.

When he was down to his undergarments, he sat on the wet floor, folding his legs beneath him like a child. His stare never wavered. He watched you with a kind of fascination as you tore off your blood-soaked clothes, swapping them for his. The fabric was cold against your skin, damp from the humidity of the room. As you changed, you noticed the water on the floor—the blood from your clothes seeping into it, swirling like red ink in a puddle.

His eyes became crescent moons as he saw it too. His lips curled into a small, smile. "That’s not your blood, is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with delight, as though the truth excited him.

"No," you replied simply, pulling the patient uniform over your body. "It’s not."

The room fell into silence, save for the soft dripping of water and the distant hum of the hospital around you. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with curiosity, his mind racing to understand you, to piece together the kind of person you must be.

He looked down at the bloodied water, his grin widening. "You killed someone."

You shot him a cold glare, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed even more excited by your reaction.

"I like you," he murmured, his voice dark and playful, like a child discovering a new toy. "Take me with you."

"No." Your response was immediate, firm.

As you moved toward the door, his hand shot out, grabbing your ankle with surprising strength. His grip was tight, almost desperate. "Take me with you," he repeated, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of determination.

Your eyes narrowed, your grip tightening on the knife. "No."

He stood up, quick and agile, pulling clothes from a nearby pile and dressing himself in them as though he had planned for this all along. "If you don’t take me," he said, his tone light, almost sing-song, "I’ll scream."

The threat hung in the air between you. You stared at him, your mind racing. He was unstable, that much was clear. But he wasn’t lying. He would scream, and the sirens were already too close. If he screamed, you’d be caught. You didn’t have a choice.

"You're insane," you muttered, your voice filled with frustration.

He grinned, a wild, manic grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe. But if you don’t take me, I’ll scream."

"Fine," you growled, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet. You didn’t have time to argue. You had to get out, and now, he was coming with you whether you liked it or not.

You rushed to your car, the man—Hyunjin—you had asked in a hurry, following close behind, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Once inside, you sped off, leaving the hospital behind, the distant wail of sirens fading into the night.

The drive to your house was silent, tension filling the small space between you. Hyunjin sat next to you, his eyes flitting between the road and your hands on the steering wheel, a barely concealed excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

When you finally pulled up to your house, you led him inside. He followed closely, his eyes scanning the space—until they landed on the body.

Your ex, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

Hyunjin let out a delighted whistle. "You’ve been busy."

You shot him a glare, you walked over to the body, nudging it with your foot. His head fell to the side when Hyunjin tried to touch his face and the blood fell on your shoes. You ran your foot over the dead man's shirt to wipe off the blood.

"He deserved it."

"I’m sure he did," Hyunjin said, his voice dripping with amusement. "And now what? We just… live with it?"

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. "You’re not going to run?" you asked, curious.

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I? You’re interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yes," he said, stepping closer to you. "You’re like me, you're fun." His eyes gleamed with that same unsettling light from before. "We could be good together, you know."

You stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words. He was dangerous, unpredictable. But then again, so were you.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone like him around.

...

The door slams behind you as you enter the apartment, your pulse racing with the thrill of what you’ve just done. There’s a certain satisfaction lingering on your lips, a wicked smile you can’t quite hide.

You step over to the mirror, admiring the streaks of blood on your cheek. Not yours, of course. Never yours. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as you lean closer to your reflection.

"Beautiful."

The voice startles you, and you turn to find Hyunjin lounging on the couch, his head tilted as he watches you, eyes glittering with something. He looks far too calm, for someone who just saw you walk in like this.

"Is that why you're still here?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because I’m a monster?"

His lips curve up into a slow, smile, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "Because you’re the only one who makes me feel alive," he says, voice as smooth as velvet, dripping with sweetness.

"Isn’t that what you wanted? To save me?"

You walk toward him slowly, every step deliberate, predatory. "I didn’t save you, Hyunjin, you begged me to get you outta there."

Hyunjin’s fingers trace along the edge of the couch, his gaze unwavering. There’s a flicker of madness behind his calm exterior, one that mirrors your own. It’s what drew you to him in the first place. The way he teeters on the edge of insanity, always so close to falling, but never quite letting go.

"Maybe that’s why I like you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Because I want you to break me completely."

You laugh, the sound echoing through the room, cold and hollow. "You say that, but can you handle me, Hyunjin?"

He stands, slow, until he’s towering over you. His fingers brush your cheek, lingering over the blood like a lover’s touch. "Why do you think I’ve stayed?" His lips are close to your ear now, his breath hot against your skin. "I crave the chaos. I crave you."

You can feel the tension in the air between you two, the dangerous pull of your shared madness. There’s a sick beauty in it, the way you both destroy and rebuild each other, over and over again. No one else would understand it. No one else would survive it.

"You’ll fall apart," you warn, even as your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see it — the madness, the desperation. It’s consuming him, just like it’s consumed you.

"Then let me fall," he murmurs, his voice heavy with longing. "Let me fall into you, Y/N."

Your grip tightens, and for a moment, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence.

Then, Hyunjin smiles —while smearing that blood on your face a little more— that wicked, broken smile that matches yours so perfectly. You press your lips to his, hard and unforgiving, feeling his breath hitch as the weight of your shared insanity finally crashes down.

There’s no redemption here. Just sweet surrender.

Together.

Falling, Laughing, Loving

SUMMARY: Life gets harder after falling in love, but he doesn't care

Crazy in love! Minho x Reader

Minho used to think luck was for the overly optimistic. He was always a realist—things worked out because he worked for them. The world didn’t hand out success based on some invisible charm; you had to earn it. That’s how he became the best student in his class. It wasn’t luck that got him praised by the dean. It wasn’t luck that helped him win the baseball championship either. And when he stood on stage with a certificate in his hand, or when the dean patted him on the back, or when his team celebrated their trophy win, Minho felt… nothing.

He knew he should have felt proud, maybe even ecstatic. But all it was to him was another task checked off his list, another thing expected of him.

That was before you.

Minho didn’t notice it at first. You were just his classmate, the girl sitting a few rows away during lectures, always scribbling in your notebook and looking half-lost but still managing to answer questions when asked. But the more he saw you, the more he found himself wondering what was going on in your mind.

And then, there was that one day. It was after an exhausting class—everyone was groaning about the workload, but you? You were smiling, laughing about something with your friend. It was contagious, and for the first time, Minho felt something different. A lightness in his chest. A laugh bubbled up inside him just because you were smiling.

That was when he started noticing you more. The way your laughter echoed in the classroom, the way you’d zone out and absentmindedly tap your pen on the desk, the way your eyes lit up when you got an answer right. He didn’t know how or when, but Minho was falling. Slowly, but surely.

And that’s when life decided to play a trick on him.

Minho stood with his friends at the top of the stairs near the college's entrance, chatting about an upcoming project. He was mid-sentence when his thoughts drifted. There you were, at the bottom of the stairs, laughing with someone. His mind instantly focused on you—your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed.

Then it happened.

Without warning, his foot slipped, and before he knew it, he was tumbling down the stairs. His body hit the steps hard, but his mind was still on you. When he landed at the bottom, groaning in pain, he looked up and there you were, staring down at him with a surprised but amused expression.

Minho’s brain wasn’t even processing the pain. All he could focus on was the fact that you were at the bottom of the escalator. You were watching, concern and amusement dancing in your eyes. You hurried over, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

"You alright, Minho?" you asked, crouching down to his level, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead. Your touch was featherlight, but it set his skin on fire.

Minho blinked up at you, his heart doing somersaults in his chest. "Y-yeah… I’m good," he stammered, trying to act cool but failing miserably.

You stood up, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. "Be careful next time, alright? We don’t want to lose our best student to a staircase."

Minho stood frozen for a moment, watching you leave, a stupid grin forming on his face. His friends ran up to him, their eyes wide with concern.

"Bro, are you okay?" Jisung asked, gripping his arm.

"Yeah, dude, you just face-planted down like ten steps," Hyunjin added.

Minho blinked, snapping out of it. "Wait, did you see that?" he asked, excitement bubbling in his voice.

"Yeah, we saw you nearly break your neck," his friend deadpanned.

"No, not that!" Minho shook his head, still grinning. "She laughed. Because of me!"

His friends stared at him, clearly confused.

"Dude, you almost broke your face," Seungmin said.

Minho only laughed, ignoring their bewildered looks. "She laughed," he repeated softly, his heart swelling at the memory, "Because of me, she touched my head too...".

His friends exchanged looks, clearly baffled. "Bro, you hit your head harder than we thought."

That night, Minho was at home, sitting at the kitchen table with his four-year-old cousin, Jun, who was visiting with his family. The little boy squirmed in his seat as Minho scrolled through his phone, landing on a picture of you from a group project last semester.

"Look, Jun," Minho said, showing the picture to the wide-eyed child. "Isn’t she pretty?"

Jun looked at the screen, eyes going big with curiosity before a giggle escaped him. "She’s cute!"

"Right?" Minho smiled fondly, completely smitten.

Just as he was about to swipe to another photo, Jun, in his excitement, knocked over his juice, spilling it all over the table—and Minho’s class notes. The liquid soaked through the paper, smudging ink and ruining hours of work.

But Minho didn’t flinch. Normally, he’d be frustrated, maybe even furious. Instead, he grinned, wiping the table casually with a cloth.

"Ah, Jun! You couldn’t handle her cuteness either, huh?" Minho laughed, patting his cousin’s head. "Don’t worry, she’s so gorgeous, even I can’t handle it sometimes."

His high school cousin, seated across from him, nearly choked on his food. "Are you serious right now? You’re not mad?"

Minho looked up, still smiling. "Why would I be mad? I just got to show Jun the prettiest girl in the world."

His cousin blinked, setting down his fork. "Minho, dude, are you okay? Did you hit your head today?"

Minho laughed again, a carefree sound that made his cousin squint at him like he was losing his mind. But he didn’t care. None of it mattered. All he could think about was the fact that earlier, you had laughed at his clumsiness, you called out his name, you touched his hair with your soft fingers, he could still feel them. You had patted his shoulder and smiled at him.

He leaned back in his chair, sighing dreamily. "I’m great. Never better."

The next day, Minho walked into class, his eyes immediately scanning the room for you. You were there, sitting near the window, that same peaceful smile on your face as you stared outside. He found a seat behind you, unable to focus on anything other than how much his luck had changed since you entered his life.

A few days later, you and Minho found yourselves walking out of class together. It wasn’t planned—it just sort of happened. You were talking about something, your voice filling the quiet hallway, and Minho was only half-listening. He was too busy watching you, the way your lips moved when you spoke, the way your hair bounced with each step.

He was so distracted, he didn’t see the doorframe.

With a loud thunk, Minho walked straight into the edge of the door, groaning as he rubbed his forehead.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" you asked, clearly trying not to laugh as you reached out to steady him.

Minho winced, but seeing you trying so hard not to laugh at his misfortune made the pain completely worth it. "I’m fine. Totally fine," he said, flashing you a sheepish smile.

You giggled, shaking your head. "You’re such a klutz lately."

Minho chuckled, brushing off the embarrassment. "Yeah, but if I make you laugh, it’s totally worth it."

"What?" You asked, pretending to not hear.

"Nothing, I'm just enjoying my life a bit too much" He laughs.

Before you, he’d never thought of himself as lucky. Even with all his achievements, nothing ever really felt like it mattered. But now? Every little mishap, every small inconvenience, every time he tripped or spilled something—it all seemed worth it, just because it led to moments where he got to see you smile, hear your laugh, or feel your touch, even if it was just a pat on the shoulder.

And as Minho stood there next to you, he knew one thing for certain:

He was the luckiest guy in the world.

Fic Incoming!

Help me choose!

let me know!

Anonymously - or not - tell me what passage, fic, line of narration, or anything you remember me by as a writer.

Help me choose!

"I Would've Loved Her Right"

Broken! Jeongin x Dead! Reader(fem)

Part-1

Jeongin stood at the edge of his new apartment, surveying the scene before him. Cardboard boxes were piled high around him, like miniature mountains threatening to topple, each one marked with black ink scribbles indicating their contents. The scent of fresh paint clung to the walls, mingling with the cool, crisp autumn air that slipped through the cracked window, bringing with it a distant hum of city life. It wasn’t much to look at—just a modest one-bedroom unit tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where the nights were still and the mornings were slow. But it was his. It was a new beginning, a fresh canvas. After months of his life being nothing but fragmented pieces, scattered and disordered, this move felt like the first step toward stitching the chaos back together.

At twenty-one, he hadn’t imagined starting over would be part of his plan. And yet, here he was, standing in a space that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

The breakup had been hard. No—brutal. The kind of heartbreak that left you breathless, hollowed out, with sharp edges where soft feelings used to be. Her words still echoed in his mind, playing on a relentless loop: “You’re not enough, Jeongin. I need more. I need someone who knows what they want.”

He couldn’t shake the sting of it, the way those words had carved into him. But a part of him wondered if she really knew what she wanted. Or was it just easier to push him away with that excuse? Jeongin had loved her. Maybe not in the perfect, all-consuming way people talk about in songs or movies, but in his own quiet, steadfast way. He had loved her deeply, or at least he thought he had. But clearly, it hadn’t been enough.

The past year had been a blur of confusion and soul-searching, trying to pick up the pieces of his identity after she had left. He thought he’d come further by now. He thought moving to this new place would finally make him feel whole again. But now, standing in this empty apartment, the loneliness seemed to press in on him from all sides, an invisible weight that was hard to shake.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath, the silence almost deafening. Maybe this apartment was a symbol of something more. Maybe it wasn’t just the walls that needed to be filled—it was him too.

“I’ll get used to it,” he muttered, running a hand through his unruly hair, the strands sticking up at odd angles. His voice bounced off the bare walls, filling the room for a moment before being swallowed by the empty space. Aside from the occasional groan of the old wooden floorboards beneath his feet, there was nothing but silence—a silence that almost felt alive, watching him, waiting for something.

The day had been long, the hours spent unpacking stretching endlessly. Every box he opened seemed to remind him just how much of his past he was carrying with him, both physically and emotionally.

Finally, Jeongin let himself collapse onto the old leather couch he’d painstakingly dragged up three flights of stairs. It groaned under his weight, the worn cushions sagging slightly, but it was the only piece of furniture that felt even remotely familiar.

The rest of the apartment had come furnished, a detail that had seemed convenient at first. But now, sitting among the mismatched, outdated pieces, it felt a little unsettling. The furniture was old, fraying at the edges, and the entire place seemed as if someone had lived here once and left in a hurry, abandoning more than just their belongings.

The eeriness of it gnawed at him, a faint unease settling in the pit of his stomach. There was a story here, lingering in the dust, in the creases of the worn upholstery. Who had lived here before him? And why had they left so abruptly? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers to those questions.

Kicking his feet up onto the rickety coffee table in front of him, his eyes fell on something he hadn’t noticed before. A small drawer tucked underneath the table, its handle crooked, as if it had been pulled too many times. It caught his attention like a whisper in the dark, urging him to look closer. Curiosity piqued, he leaned forward and gave the handle a gentle tug. The drawer slid open with a creak, revealing something unexpected.

Inside, nestled in the dusty interior, was a small, leather-bound book.

"Huh..." he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he reached into the drawer and carefully lifted the small book from its dusty resting place. It was heavier than he had expected for such a compact object, the weight of it somehow amplifying the sense of mystery that surrounded it. He turned it over in his hands, the worn leather cover soft under his fingers, smoothed by time and use, as though it had been held and handled countless times before. Its deep brown surface was cracked in places, like the lines of an old map, hinting at a long history. The texture, though weathered, felt oddly comforting—like the embrace of something familiar despite being unknown.

There were no markings on the cover. No title, no name, no decorative embossing. Just the plain, unadorned leather, worn and faded, offering no clues as to its contents or origin. He ran his thumb along the spine, where the stitching had frayed just slightly, evidence that it had been opened and closed many times, its secrets shared and sealed again. The pages, however, were a different story. Though yellowed slightly with age, they seemed remarkably well-preserved, untouched by the passing of time that had left its mark on the cover. He could feel the smooth edges of the paper beneath his fingers as he fanned them lightly, a faint, musty scent escaping—a smell like old libraries, full of forgotten stories and hidden memories.

His heart skipped a beat. It looked like a journal, the kind people pour their thoughts into when no one else is listening. But something about it felt... different. More personal. Almost sacred, as though it held more than just mundane daily entries. It was as if this little book, so unassuming in appearance, contained pieces of someone’s life—fragments of their soul—trapped between its pages, waiting for someone to discover them.

For a moment, he froze, fingers hovering over the edge of the cover, unsure of whether or not to open it. A strange sense of reverence washed over him, making him hesitate. This wasn’t just some discarded item, left behind carelessly with the rest of the furniture. This was someone’s diary, someone’s private thoughts, written down with the intent of being hidden, or at least kept secret. Whoever had lived in this apartment before him had probably filled these pages with their most intimate feelings, things they hadn’t been able to say out loud, things they couldn’t confide in anyone else. Maybe even things they hadn’t admitted to themselves.

Was it wrong to read it?

The question buzzed in his mind, a moral dilemma he hadn’t anticipated. His first instinct was to close the drawer, to put the journal back where he’d found it and leave it untouched. It wasn’t his to read. These weren’t his memories, his experiences. It felt invasive, like he was crossing a line, stepping into a space that wasn’t his to occupy. He imagined someone reading his own thoughts, the vulnerable words he kept buried inside himself, and a knot formed in his stomach.

But then again, the person who had written this was long gone. Whoever they were, they had left the apartment, left this life behind, and hadn’t bothered to take the journal with them. Maybe they had forgotten it, or maybe they had meant to leave it. Maybe, in some strange way, it was meant to be found.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the previous tenant. Who were they? What had their life been like here, in this same space where he now stood? Had they been happy? Lonely? Had this apartment held the same weight of solitude for them that it did for him? Or had it been filled with warmth, with love, with laughter, before something changed? Jeongin felt an odd connection to this unknown person, someone he had never met and would likely never know. Their presence lingered here, in the worn furniture, in the faint smell of something sweet that still clung to the walls. And now, in this journal.

The more he thought about it, the more his curiosity grew. What kind of person leaves behind something so personal, something that surely held significance? Maybe it wasn’t just the apartment that carried a story—maybe this little book did too. And maybe, just maybe, it was a story he was supposed to uncover. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of starting over? To find meaning in the things that had been lost? To rebuild not just his own life, but to make sense of the world around him? Perhaps this journal, left behind in the empty shell of an apartment, held a piece of that meaning, waiting to be discovered.

Jeongin exhaled slowly, his decision made. He wasn’t sure if it was fate or just happenstance, but he couldn’t resist the pull of the unknown. The temptation was too strong, the mystery too compelling to ignore. After all, wasn’t this what he had wanted—a fresh start, a way to move forward? Maybe this journal, with all its secrets, could offer him some kind of clarity, or at least a distraction from the thoughts that had been circling in his own mind for too long.

He swallowed the lingering hesitation, his fingers tightening around the edges of the book. Slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping a delicate gift, he opened the cover.

He flipped open the first page, and his eyes skimmed over the neat handwriting.

“There are some things I’ll never say aloud, some truths that stay buried because they’re too heavy to carry. I’m tired of pretending to be whole when I’m rotting inside...”

Jeongin blinked, his breath catching in his throat. It was just ink on a page, but the weight behind it felt like a punch to the chest. This wasn’t the casual doodling of someone passing time. No, this was a confession, the kind you only make to yourself when the world has turned away and left you alone with your thoughts.

He found himself reading the sentence again, letting the words settle in his mind. I’m tired of pretending to be whole... That line stuck with him. It wasn’t dramatic or over-the-top, but it cut deep, the honesty of it almost too sharp. Whoever wrote this—whoever lived here before him—had been carrying something heavy, something they couldn’t share with anyone. It was a loneliness he recognized too well.

For a second, he thought about closing the book, about putting it back where he found it and walking away from the private pain hidden in its pages.

But instead, his fingers tightened around the leather cover.

He knew he wasn’t done reading. Not yet.

He flipped the pages, as if to get an overview of the whole thing, and his eyes landed upon this sentence:

“I loved him, but love isn’t enough. Not when you’re broken. Not when every ‘I love you’ feels like a lie because you don’t love yourself.”

He cried. It was too relatable, it was too painful, he set it aside and looked at it as if it slapped him in the face.

It felt like the book looked back at him, with an intense gaze, a gaze that was too painful, begging to ease the burden it has to bear, with the painful words written on it.

He carried that book with him wherever he went now, as if it had become a part of him. It wasn’t just a book anymore; it was a place he could retreat to, a source of unexpected answers hidden within the questions scribbled across the pages. The questions she wrote were sometimes the very ones he found himself asking, though he never quite put them into words. And when he read those questions, it felt like, in some strange way, he received answers too, as if the act of reading her thoughts gave clarity to his own.

The book had become his constant companion, the one thing he couldn’t leave behind, no matter where he went. It wasn’t just a collection of someone else’s thoughts anymore; it was a lifeline, a whisper of understanding in a world that often felt indifferent. Each page was like opening a door to another world, another mind, another soul. There, tucked between the messy handwriting and tear-stained pages, was a person—someone raw and real, someone who hurt, laughed, and raged, just like him.

The questions she wrote haunted him. They weren’t just idle musings, they were the kind of questions that circled in his own mind late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.

"I'm in the kitchen now. Everyone's asleep. I'm hungry, but I don’t want to eat anything from the fridge. I don’t even know what I want anymore. Do I want to eat? Do I want to sleep? Do I want to wake up tomorrow?"

It wasn’t just hunger she was talking about. He could feel it in the words—the deeper, unspoken craving for something more, something that would fill the emptiness gnawing at her. He recognized it because he’d felt it too. That nameless ache that made you feel like you were missing something essential, something that everyone else seemed to have.

"My mother wants me to become a lawyer. She thinks it’s a respectable job. But how do you explain to someone that you can’t even imagine living long enough to pick a career?"

That line had hit him hard the first time he read it, and it hit him again every time he went back to it. He didn’t know how to explain that kind of heaviness either—the weight of expectations that pressed down until you couldn’t breathe, until the future felt like a foreign concept, like something that didn’t belong to you.

"Why is the hair on my legs so much healthier than the hair on my head? Maybe even my body knows it’s a waste of time to take care of the parts that matter."

Her humor was sharp, biting in a way that made him smile despite himself. But underneath it all, there was always that thread of pain, of uncertainty, as if she didn’t even believe in her own jokes.

"These relatives... she told me I was too young to be having back pains. Well, alright, you rotten chicken fungus of an aunt, you're too old to be alive, but here we are, aren’t we?"

Jeongin had laughed out loud the first time he read that. It was such a strange, unexpected combination of words. She was angry, frustrated, but instead of letting it consume her, she twisted it into something absurd. It was her way of fighting back against a world that didn’t make sense. And maybe that’s why he felt such a strong connection to her.

She was like him, trying to make sense of things that couldn’t be understood.

But then there were the moments when her humor cracked, when the weight of everything she was carrying bled through the pages.

"Even the shrimp in my soup looked at me like it was disgusted to be eaten by someone as useless as me. Maybe that’s why I threw up when I got home. Maybe my body is rejecting me, just like everything else does."

Those lines made his chest ache. He didn’t know her, but he could feel her pain as if it were his own. And in some ways, it was. They were strangers, but their experiences overlapped in ways that were impossible to ignore. She wrote about her feelings of worthlessness, her moments of self-doubt, and it mirrored so much of what he had felt in his own life.

"I bled too much this month. I honestly got scared, thought I might die. And for a second, I hoped I would. Isn’t that pathetic?"

Sometimes, he felt like he was trespassing on something sacred, like he had stumbled into the most private parts of someone’s soul and wasn’t supposed to be there. But he couldn’t stop. The more he read, the more he understood her, and the more he understood himself.

She had written about love too, though it was clear that love had never been kind to her.

"I think the worst part of being in love is realizing that you’re not worth being loved back. I waited for him to notice me, but I was invisible. I gave everything, but it was never enough. I’ll never be enough. Maybe no one will ever love me."

"I think about him all the time. What he’s doing, where he is, why he hasn’t called. And when he finally does, it’s like I’m waiting for scraps of his attention, begging for something that never comes. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for loving him."

"He’s always busy, always tired, always has an excuse. But when he needs something, I’m the first person he calls. And I always go. I always show up. I can’t say no, even when I know I should. I think I’m scared he’ll leave for good if I stop trying. But why do I care? Why do I care about someone who doesn’t care about me?"

"I told him I needed more. That I was tired of feeling like an afterthought, like I was always chasing him. He laughed. Laughed. Like I was being ridiculous, like I was overreacting. He said I was being clingy, that I was too emotional. He made me feel like I was asking for too much, even though I knew I wasn’t. All I wanted was for him to care about me the way I cared about him."

"I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I’ve become this person who waits around for someone who doesn’t care if I’m there or not. I feel so small, like I’ve disappeared into the shadows of his life, and he doesn’t even notice. I’m losing myself, and I don’t know how to get me back."

"He never even said he loved me. Not once. And I think that’s what hurts the most—that I gave him everything, and he couldn’t even give me those three words."

Those words stayed with him long after he closed the book, hanging in the air like a ghost he couldn’t shake off.

He traced his fingers over the blotchy ink, smudged from what he could only assume was a tear that had fallen while she wrote. It was old now, the paper yellowing around the edges, but the pain still felt fresh. His own tears fell onto the page, mingling with the remnants of hers, creating new blotches, new marks of shared sorrow.

It reminded him of his own heartbreak, the nights he had spent lying awake, wondering what he had done wrong, why he hadn’t been enough. At least he had experienced it, love, even if it had been fleeting and unreciprocated. He had felt it, even when it was small, even when it had hurt. She, on the other hand, seemed like she had never even had the chance. She had never known what it felt like to be truly loved, to be held, to be seen. And that, more than anything, broke his heart.

And sometimes, in those quiet moments when the world felt still and all he had were her words, Jeongin couldn’t help but think:

If I had met her, I would’ve loved her. I would’ve loved her the way she deserved to be loved. I would’ve held her, told her she wasn’t invisible. I would’ve loved her right.

It was a strange thought, irrational even, to love someone he had never met, someone whose face he couldn’t even picture. But it wasn’t about that. It was about the way she made him feel, the way her words spoke to the deepest parts of him. They were both broken in their own ways, both wandering through life with pieces missing. But together, even if only through the fragile connection of ink on paper, they were whole. At least, that’s what he told himself.

In one of her final entries, she had written something that had stayed with him longer than anything else:

“I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared. If I just...faded away. Maybe it’s better this way. No one gets hurt when you’re invisible.”

He had gone to the kitchen that night, seeking out the spot she had described. It was cramped, barely enough room to stand, let alone sit and write. He had pushed the table aside, just a little, and squeezed himself into the space. It was uncomfortable, awkward, nothing like the peaceful image her words had painted. Yet, as he stood there, the cool air brushing against his skin, he understood why she had chosen that spot. It was a place where she could be alone, but still feel connected. A place where she could write her pain into the world and, in doing so, release it, even if only for a moment.

He stood there for a long time, just reading her words, feeling the weight of them settle into his bones. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel so alone.

In that moment, he felt closer to her than ever, connected by this strange, unspoken bond through the pages of her diary.

Months passed, and Jeongin had read the diary so many times, he could recite some of the entries from memory, it was like some kind of faith, like some kind of devotion.

Everytime he reads it, he finds something new.

It was only after the 6th read he was able to figure out that her handwriting was actually bad, she wanted to maintain her diary well.

Only after the third read he found out that she had siblings, and she was the eldest.

Yet, no matter how many times he read it, the ending always left him haunted. The last page she had written on was almost too painful to bear.

“I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared. If I just...faded away. Maybe it’s better this way. No one gets hurt when you’re invisible.”

After that, the pages were blank.

She had stopped writing, and no matter how many times Jeongin flipped through the journal, hoping for just one more entry, there was nothing. No final thoughts, no explanation, not even a hint of what might have happened to her. The silence in those empty pages gnawed at him, as if the story had been abruptly cut off, leaving him suspended in a web of unanswered questions. Each time he opened the journal, his fingers traced the edges of the worn paper, yearning for some kind of closure, but it never came.

It had been a long time since Jeongin had written anything of his own. In his younger days, he had filled countless journals with his thoughts, feelings, and the trivial moments of everyday life. But somewhere along the way, as the years passed, life became too overwhelming—too fast, too chaotic, too painful. The words that once flowed easily from his pen had dried up, like a river dammed by the weight of reality. Yet now, as he stared at the blank pages in front of him, something deep inside began to stir. It was a faint, almost forgotten feeling—a quiet urge to express, to release. The silence of her journal, the unanswered questions, seemed to call out to him, beckoning him to fill the empty space with his own words once again.

He grabbed a pen and began to write.

The journal had become a lifeline for Jeongin. Every day, he’d write. Sometimes it was a response to something she had written, just beside or above and near the empty spaces of the page, with a different colored ink—other times, it was just his own thoughts, the things he couldn’t say to anyone else. The pages that had once been hers were slowly becoming his too.

The breakup didn’t hurt as much anymore. The scars were still there, of course, but they had faded. He had begun to move on, even if the world felt a little lonelier without her words to guide him.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About what might have happened to her after she stopped writing. The thought gnawed at him, and after a year had passed, after his graduation and the start of his new job, Jeongin made a decision.

He was going to find her.

Jeongin spent weeks searching for her, digging through old records, asking neighbors and looking for any clue as to what had happened to the woman behind the journal. It was difficult, especially since the diary hadn’t given any specific details about her life—no name, no address, no family.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he owed it to her. She had shared so much of herself with him, even though she hadn’t known him. The least he could do was find out who she was.

Eventually, after much frustration and countless dead ends, Jeongin found his answer.

She was dead.

The news hit him like a punch to the gut. He sat in the small, local library where he had been doing his research, staring at the old obituary. There was no photo, just a brief mention of her passing, no cause of death listed. It was as if she had simply vanished from the world, just as she had written about.

Jeongin felt tears burn at the back of his eyes. All this time, he had been reading her words, connecting with her, hoping that maybe she had found peace. But she hadn’t.

She was gone.

The funeral had long passed, but Jeongin found the grave—a small, unmarked stone in a quiet corner of the cemetery. It was so unassuming, almost like no one had cared enough to give her a proper place of rest, as if she were some kind of dead fish, no, a fish would've had a better funeral.

“I would have loved you,” he whispered, kneeling by the gravestone. His fingers traced the cold marble, his heart heavy with all the words he wished he could say to her. “I would have loved you right.”

The wind blew softly, as if the universe itself was listening, but no answer came.

Jeongin stayed there for a long time, just sitting with her, feeling the weight of her absence. When he finally stood, he pulled the journal from his bag, the pages now worn from his constant reading. He had one last thing to ask.

L-L-Love.

Unemployed! Felix x Employer! Reader (fem)

Felix was having one of those days. The kind where the world felt a little heavier, the sky a little too grey, and every small inconvenience seemed like a personal attack. It didn’t help that he was now standing in the lobby of a company he had no business working for, hoping for a lifeline from his friend Seungmin.

"Why the hell did I think perfume was my calling?" Felix muttered to himself, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He felt out of place—like a stray dog wandering into a royal palace.

The lobby itself was too pristine for his liking, all white marble floors and cold, sharp edges. Everything smelled faintly of expensive fragrance, a constant reminder of just how out of his depth he was. Felix shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Seungmin to show up, his nerves gnawing at him. If Seungmin didn’t come through for him soon, he was going to bolt.

Seungmin finally arrived, looking all too smug in his tailored suit. “Relax, man. You look like you’re about to pass out. You’ll be fine.”

“I doubt it,” Felix grumbled, running a hand through his hair. "This place gives me the creeps. Like it's too… perfect. And the last thing I need is some uptight CEO chewing me out."

Seungmin gave him a sideways glance, a smirk forming on his lips. "Uptight? I never said anything about her being uptight."

Felix let out a heavy sigh. “You know what I mean. All CEOs are the same—cold, calculating, and out for blood. It’s not exactly my vibe.”

“You’ll be fine. The boss might be strict, but she’s not heartless," Seungmin replied, eyes glinting with some kind of secret amusement Felix couldn’t place. “Just stay on her good side.”

Felix rolled his eyes, barely paying attention, when something—or rather someone—caught his eye.

She walked across the lobby with a quiet confidence that seemed out of place in this antiseptic environment. The fluorescent lights glowed faintly around her, and Felix swore the air itself softened in her wake. Her features were sharp yet delicate, like someone had carefully sculpted her from pure elegance. There was something so effortlessly striking about her that Felix felt his throat tighten.

She was beautiful—no, beyond that. She was like something out of a dream. The way she carried herself, so sure and unbothered by the world around her, made everything else fade into insignificance. For the first time all morning, things made sense. It was as if the weight of his day lifted just a little, his mind refocusing on this singular figure.

“Who’s that?” Felix whispered, his voice barely audible as he leaned toward Seungmin, eyes locked on the woman across the lobby. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was an overwhelming compulsion that he couldn’t explain. Something about her presence commanded his attention, as if the entire room had dimmed except for the spotlight shining directly on her.

Her movements were deliberate and elegant, each step she took seemingly in sync with the steady beat of Felix’s suddenly racing heart. She wasn’t just beautiful—there was an aura about her that made everyone else in the room seem insignificant, like background noise. Felix didn’t want to blink, afraid that if he did, she’d vanish as quickly as she appeared.

Seungmin glanced lazily in her direction, then back at Felix, amusement flashing in his eyes. The smirk on Seungmin’s face only deepened the unease growing in Felix’s chest. Seungmin knew something. He always did. “Oh, her?” Seungmin’s voice was casual, almost too casual. “Yeah, I know her.”

Felix raised an eyebrow at his friend, suspicion bubbling under the surface. “You know her?” he asked, his tone laced with doubt. There was something in the way Seungmin said it, something teasing, something Felix couldn’t quite place but knew to be wary of. Seungmin had always been the type to enjoy watching Felix squirm, and Felix got the distinct feeling this was one of those moments.

Seungmin’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with a kind of secret Felix wasn’t privy to yet. “Yeah,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Felix’s mind raced, his thoughts tumbling over one another. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had carried herself, the effortless grace in her posture, the confident way she moved through the space. Her expression had been focused, intense even, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was important. Too important for someone like him to approach, and yet…

He swallowed hard, and before he could talk himself out of it, the words tumbled out of his mouth. “Do you think I could… maybe get her number?”

The second the words were out, Felix felt a flush of heat rise to his face. What was he doing? He didn’t even know her name, much less anything else about her, yet here he was, acting like some love-struck fool. But there was something about her—something he couldn’t shake. Something that made the usually confident Felix feel a little off-balance, like gravity had shifted around her.

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “You?” he said, clearly amused. “Asking for a girl’s number during a job interview?”

Felix groaned, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Don’t make it weird,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as if that could somehow wipe away the embarrassment. “I just—look, she’s… I don’t know. She’s different.”

Seungmin looked like he was on the verge of bursting into laughter, but he held it together, though not without a significant amount of effort. “Different? You barely know her.”

Felix felt the weight of Seungmin’s teasing, but he couldn’t let it go. “You didn’t see her like I did,” he insisted, voice softening as he glanced back toward where she had disappeared down the hallway. “There’s something about her, Seungmin. She’s… I don’t know. It’s like she’s not even real.”

Seungmin’s smirk didn’t fade, but there was a flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe pity—in his eyes. “Felix, buddy, you’re acting like you’ve been hit by Cupid’s arrow.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Felix muttered.

She glanced at Felix, her eyes flicking over him for the briefest second before moving on as if he were just another piece of office decor. She gave Seungmin a nod and continued walking, disappearing into one of the sleek glass offices.

“What was that about?” Felix asked, feeling more out of the loop than ever.

Seungmin just smirked, enjoying this.

As Felix watched her walk by again, his heart hammered in his chest. His mind was racing with a thousand thoughts, but the loudest one was simple: Don’t let her go. Without thinking, he blurted out, “Hey, excuse me!”

She turned slowly, her sharp, captivating eyes locking onto his, and Felix felt like the world around them blurred for a second. He swallowed hard. Her expression was unreadable, her eyebrow slightly raised in question, but she didn’t look annoyed. Yet.

“Uh, hi,” Felix stammered, trying to gather himself. He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to play it cool, but the nervous energy practically buzzed off him. “I know this is, like, probably the worst time… considering I’m here for a job interview and all, but I—I just couldn’t help myself.”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “Couldn’t help yourself with what?” Her tone was calm, but there was a slight edge to it, like she was testing him.

Felix bit his lip, steeling himself for whatever was going to happen next. “You see, I don’t usually do this—especially not when I’m, uh, supposed to be here for a professional reason. But when I saw you… something clicked. Like, I don’t know—one of those cheesy moments where the room fades out, and all you can see is one person. Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous.”

Her lips quirked slightly, just a tiny hint of amusement. “Go on.”

He felt emboldened, taking her slight reaction as encouragement. “Look, I know I’m coming off as the guy who’s way too forward, but I just have to say it. You’re—well, you’re kind of like the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time. And I’m not just talking about the way you look—although, yeah, I’d be lying if I didn’t mention that. There’s something about the way you carry yourself that’s got me completely... captivated. Like I’m supposed to meet you, you know?”

She blinked, her face still mostly unreadable, but there was something behind her eyes now—a flicker of curiosity.

“So, what I’m trying to say is… Would it be too forward to ask for your number?” Felix scratched the back of his head, offering her a sheepish smile. “I mean, life’s short, right? They always say love finds you in the most unexpected places. Who’s to say this—" he gestured awkwardly between them, "—isn’t one of those moments?”

She stared at him for a beat, her expression unreadable once again. Then, to Felix’s utter surprise, a soft, almost teasing smile crept across her lips.

“Love, huh?” she mused, her voice calm but with an edge of something Felix couldn’t quite place. “That’s quite the leap for someone you don’t even know.”

Felix’s cheeks burned, but he chuckled nervously, shrugging. “Hey, it’s worth a shot, right? I mean, you never know unless you try.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer before letting out a soft laugh. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that.”

Felix’s heart soared, convinced he was winning her over. “So, does that mean…?”

Before he could finish his question, Seungmin appeared at her side, handing her a coffee. “Your coffee, boss,” he said casually, with a knowing smirk.

Felix’s face dropped in confusion, the words hanging in his throat. Boss? He blinked, staring at Seungmin, then back at her.

She gave Seungmin a nod, then turned to Felix, her smile fading into a more serious expression. “Nice try, Mr. Lee,” she said smoothly, “but I don’t mix business with pleasure. Especially not with employees.”

Felix’s stomach dropped. Boss?

...

Felix waited, anxiety curling tight in his gut as he sat in the waiting area. Every second felt like an eternity, his foot tapping nervously against the tiled floor. Employees passed by, their footsteps quick and hushed, almost as if they were afraid of being noticed. There were no friendly smiles or casual conversations—just tense, whispered exchanges. Felix couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversations, each one making his stomach churn with unease.

“…she’s impossible to please…” “…don’t mess up around her, or you’re done…” “…seriously, who even smiles around here?”

His heart pounded as the rumors about the CEO grew darker with each passing minute. People spoke of her like she was some kind of mythical creature—an untouchable, no-nonsense figure who ruled the company with an iron fist. She didn’t just run the company; she commanded it. Apparently, she had fired people on the spot for the smallest mistakes, and there were stories about how she once made an entire department redo a project just because the font wasn’t up to her standards.

Felix swallowed hard, his palms already starting to sweat. Great. Just great. He hadn’t expected this. Sure, he’d thought maybe she’d be intimidating—what CEO wasn’t? But this sounded like she ate people like him for breakfast and didn’t blink an eye afterward.

He wiped his hands on his pants, trying to stop them from trembling. This was supposed to be a simple job interview, not a face-off with some corporate dragon.

Seungmin’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Felix?”

Felix’s head jerked up, meeting Seungmin’s amused gaze. “Yeah?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the nervousness he was trying to hide.

Seungmin’s smirk was infuriatingly calm. “The CEO will see you now.”

Felix’s stomach did a full somersault, the anxiety pooling into something closer to dread. “You sure I’m ready for this?” He didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but at this point, all the rumors had his confidence teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Seungmin’s sly smile widened, like he knew something Felix didn’t—like this was all part of some big, cosmic joke that Felix was the punchline to. “As ready as you’ll ever be,” he said, his tone dripping with something unsettlingly playful.

With a deep, shaky breath, Felix stood, his legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. The walk to the office door felt like a march toward doom, and when Seungmin opened the door for him, Felix was hit with a wave of cold, sterile air.

The office itself was as intimidating as the woman who sat at the desk. It was pristine—almost unnaturally so. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, giving a sweeping view of the city, but the grandeur of the view did nothing to calm the nerves gnawing at his insides. Everything about the space screamed power and control. The polished desk was large, and every item on it seemed meticulously placed, as if the slightest misalignment would be unacceptable.

And there she was—the woman from the lobby. The one he had been so smitten by just minutes ago. The one he had asked for her number. Now, sitting behind a desk with an air of authority that made his knees weak for an entirely different reason.

She didn’t look up right away. Her eyes were focused on the papers in front of her, flipping through them with a precision that felt almost clinical. But then, as if sensing his presence, she finally looked up, her gaze locking onto him. Those same eyes that had caught his attention earlier were now cold, assessing. Gone was the soft allure he’d been entranced by—replaced with a sharp, calculating focus that pinned him to the spot.

“Mr. Lee, is it?” Her voice was smooth, but there was no warmth in it.

Felix’s throat tightened. “Uh, yes. That’s me.”

She leaned back in her chair, her movements deliberate and controlled, as if every gesture had a purpose. Her expression was unreadable, though Felix thought he saw a faint glimmer of recognition in her eyes. It was the briefest flicker—perhaps she remembered their awkward little moment in the lobby.

“Hmm,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. “I understand you’re interested in…”

Felix could feel the sweat on his palms again, his mind racing. Her intense gaze was making it impossible to think clearly. “Joining your team,” he managed to blurt out, his voice coming out more shaky than he intended.

Her gaze didn’t waver, and the room seemed to grow colder under her scrutiny. “No, that’s not it. I believe there was something else you mentioned earlier,” she said, her tone holding a subtle edge. She gestured between them, mimicking the awkward movement he had made when talking to her in the lobby. “What was it again? Something about…”

She paused, guesturing the way he did. “Love, was it?”

Felix’s mind went blank for a moment. Love? Oh god, had he really said that? He felt the heat rising to his face, his heart thudding in his chest. This was bad. Really bad. But all he could think about was how absurd this situation was. Just a short while ago, he’d been smitten by her beauty, bold enough to ask for her number. And now—now she was sitting behind this massive desk, her gaze like a hawk’s, making him squirm under her scrutiny.

“L-L-Love,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I think I might’ve said something about that.”

Her lips quirked ever so slightly, but there was no humor in it. “Love,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue. “Bold choice of words for someone seeking a job, don’t you think?”

Felix wanted to sink into the floor, his mind scrambling to find a way to recover from this disaster. But all he could manage was a sheepish smile, his voice weak with nerves. “I… I guess I’m not great at first impressions, ma'am”

Her expression didn’t soften, but there was a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—before she straightened in her chair again, her cold demeanor slipping back into place. “You’re right about one thing, Mr. Lee. You’re definitely not great at first impressions.”

“I understand, ma’am,” Felix said, doing his best to sound respectful.

“Mr. Lee, do you want to be our company's brand ambassador?”

Felix’s heart skipped a beat. Brand ambassador? That was miles beyond what he’d expected—he thought he’d be lucky to land a basic desk job. His mouth opened, but no words came out at first. Eventually, he nodded, still too dazed to formulate any coherent response.

She dismissed him with a curt nod, her attention already shifting back to the papers on her desk, her focus sharp and unwavering. It was clear she expected him to leave. Felix, still trying to process what had just happened, gave a half-stammered “thank you” before turning to go, his footsteps echoing softly in the room.

As he walked out, his heart pounded, a storm of emotions swirling inside him. How had his day spiraled into this chaotic whirlwind? Just this morning, he’d woken up thinking he’d be begging for a job as a junior assistant or something mundane like that. Now, not only had he embarrassed himself in front of the most intimidating woman he’d ever met, but she also turned out to be his boss—and she’d just offered him a position as brand ambassador. What does that even mean?

His mind raced with a jumble of confusion, disbelief, and—against all odds—curiosity. Why, despite her icy demeanor and the overwhelming pressure that came with her presence, did he still feel that strange pull toward her? It wasn’t just her beauty anymore. There was something more—something in the way she carried herself, the way she commanded a room without saying much at all. Felix had always been drawn to confident people, but this? This felt like being drawn toward the sun, knowing it might burn you alive, but still unable to resist the warmth.

As soon as he stepped out of the office, Seungmin was waiting for him in the hallway, arms crossed and a wicked grin plastered on his face. He leaned against the wall casually, but Felix could tell he had been waiting for this moment.

“Well?” Seungmin asked, barely holding back his laughter. “How’d it go? Surprised?”

Felix glared at him, his frustration bubbling over. “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?”

Seungmin didn’t even try to hide his amusement, his grin widening. “Of course I knew! What, you thought I was going to pass up the opportunity to watch you make a fool out of yourself?”

Felix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. You set me up! I don’t know if I should thank you or strangle you.”

Seungmin shrugged, his laughter bubbling up now. “Hey, you should be thanking me. I could’ve warned you, but where’s the fun in that? Besides,” he added, leaning in with a smug look, “you got the job, didn’t you? And not just any job—brand ambassador. That’s a pretty sweet gig for someone who just flirted with their boss during a job interview.”

Felix narrowed his eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As much as he hated to admit it, Seungmin had a point. “Yeah, I guess I did. But you could’ve given me a heads-up, you know? I walked right into that one.”

Seungmin chuckled, clearly unbothered. “What’s the fun in that? Come on, you’re gonna love working here. She’s tough, but if you impress her, she’s loyal. Plus,” he added with a wink, “you’ve already made quite the impression.”

Felix groaned again, but this time there was less frustration and more amusement in his voice. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure if it’s a good one.”

Seungmin clapped a hand on Felix’s shoulder, steering him toward the elevator. “Don’t worry. The fact that you survived that first encounter and still got the job is a good sign. She’s not one to offer positions to just anyone, you know. You’ll be fine.”

As they walked toward the elevator, Felix couldn’t help but steal one last glance at the closed door of her office, feeling a strange mix of excitement and dread bubbling up inside him. He wasn’t sure what was more terrifying—the fact that he now had to work under one of the strictest bosses he’d ever heard of, or the fact that he was genuinely looking forward to it.

He let out a long breath, shaking his head as the elevator doors closed behind them. “This is going to be one hell of a ride, isn’t it?”

Seungmin smirked, hitting the button for the ground floor. “Oh, definitely. But hey, at least you’ll have front-row seats to the fireworks.”

Felix laughed, the tension finally beginning to melt away. “Yeah, front-row seats to my own personal disaster.”

As the elevator descended, Felix couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to her—her eyes, her no-nonsense demeanor, the way she seemed to effortlessly command respect from everyone around her. He had a feeling this job was going to be a lot more complicated than he’d initially thought.

But despite everything—despite the nerves, the confusion, and the chaos—there was a part of him that couldn’t wait to see what would happen next. Maybe, just maybe, this unexpected twist of fate wasn’t so bad after all.

He glanced at Seungmin, who was still smirking like the cat that ate the canary. “You know what, man? I might just take you up on that ‘strangling’ offer someday.”

Seungmin laughed, unfazed. “Anytime, Felix. Anytime.”

“Seungmin,” Felix finally spoke up, his voice still slightly shaky. “What exactly is a brand ambassador supposed to do here? I mean, I thought I’d be behind the scenes, maybe handling sales or marketing, but this feels… different.”

Seungmin smirked, clearly enjoying Felix’s confusion. “Ah, you still don’t get it, huh? I was wondering when you’d ask.”

Felix frowned. “What do you mean?”

Seungmin leaned against the elevator wall, crossing his arms. “Well, when I say ‘brand ambassador,’ I don’t just mean a guy who’s walking around with flyers or doing customer service. No, no, this is way bigger. You’re not going to be just some face in the background—you’re going to be working with the face of the company.”

Felix blinked, feeling a growing sense of unease. “With the face of the company?”

Seungmin nodded, his grin widening. “Exactly. You know how most companies have models, right? People who represent the brand, the image, and everything the company stands for? Well, here, our CEO is the brand’s face. She’s the one people see in commercials, ads, everything. She doesn’t hire some random model. She is the model.”

Felix’s eyes widened as the pieces started to fall into place. “Wait… so she’s not just the CEO, she’s also—”

“—the literal face of the company,” Seungmin finished, nodding, and Felix understood, obviously, a pretty face like that wouldn't go unnoticed. “She’s the one the public associates with the brand. She’s the one in all the campaigns, the one people see and think, ‘That’s our product.’ And you, my friend, will be working alongside her, not in the shadows, but right there, front and center.”

Felix felt a fresh wave of panic. “So, you’re saying I’m not just working for her, I’ll be working with her? Like, as her partner in this?”

Seungmin shook his head. “ You’ll be modeling with her, attending events, doing photo shoots, being part of the same campaigns, but you wrok under her, man, don't forget that. She’s tough, Felix, but she doesn’t choose just anyone to stand beside her. You’ll have to earn it, but the fact that she offered you the job means she sees something in you. Maybe it was that boldness when you asked for her number, or she thinks you look good, which is, infact, very rare.” He snickered.

Felix groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Seungmin shrugged, chuckling softly. “Hey, if I were in your shoes, I’d be freaking out too. But look, this is a huge opportunity. You’ll learn the ropes, and if you can impress her—which isn’t easy—you’re set. It’s not every day someone gets to model alongside their boss.”

Felix’s nerves were on high alert now. Modeling? He wasn’t sure if he’d signed up for that. But at the same time, the idea of working closely with her, being in the spotlight… it was thrilling. Terrifying, but thrilling.

“So, I’m going to be in photoshoots and campaigns, standing next to her?” Felix asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Seungmin gave him a knowing look. “Yup. You’ll be representing the brand together. And trust me, people are going to be watching your every move.”

Felix’s heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if this was a dream come true or a nightmare in the making. Either way, he was about to find out.

This one.... Tumblr managed to delete my draft 🥲

Please wait! I'll post it by tomorrow or tonight

Love triangle: Minho likes Hannah, You like Hannah too (reader ends up with Minho)

Thank you very much! I'm glad you enjoyed it!

What's Left

Broken! Minho x Hurt! Reader

The night was heavy with the scent of rain and earth, the air thick and suffocating. Y/N stood at the edge of the crumbling balcony, their hand gripping the cold stone railing. The city below was cloaked in shadows, a sea of lights swallowed by the storm clouds gathering above. They had been standing there for what felt like hours, watching the world move on without them.

Behind them, Minho stirred.

"You think standing out here will change something?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade. Y/N didn't turn around. They didn't need to. They could feel him—his presence clinging to the air, dark and suffocating. It was always like this with Minho. He never stayed away for long.

"I don't expect anything to change," Y/N replied, their voice hollow, distant. "I just needed a moment."

"A moment?" Minho’s laugh was sharp, cruel. "A moment won't fix you, Y/N. A moment won't fix us."

Y/N’s grip tightened on the railing, knuckles white. The words hung between them, heavier than the storm that threatened to break above. They both knew it was true. Nothing was going to fix them—not the endless nights of silence, not the fleeting touches, not the words unsaid. Not even the twisted bond that tied them together could make sense of what they had become.

And yet, Minho was still there. He was always there.

When you finally turned to face him, Minho was leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette half hidden in the shadows. His eyes were cold, hard, and yet there was something in them, something fragile—something you could never quite reach.

"Why do you stay?" your voice was barely more than a breath, a whisper caught in the storm.

Minho’s lips curled into that familiar, crooked smile. It was the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. "You think I have a choice?"

Y/N didn’t answer. They both knew the truth. Whatever twisted, rotted thing existed between them, it had been there for too long. Minho’s heart, battered and broken, still belonged to you. As much as he tried to deny it, to fight it, he couldn’t escape the hold you had on him.

"You’ve always had me, Y/N," Minho said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. His voice was softer now, laced with something darker, something almost... tender. "Even if you don’t want me. Even if I’m nothing but a shell."

Y/N watched him approach, the storm rumbling in the distance. There was something tragic in the way Minho carried himself, as though the weight of his own existence was too much to bear. His eyes, once so full of life, were now hollow, haunted by memories neither of them could forget.

"It’s not about wanting you, Minho," Y/N whispered, their chest tightening. "It’s about what’s left."

Minho stopped just inches from them, his gaze locked on theirs. For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm, the wind howling around them, and the distant crash of thunder. Then, slowly, Minho reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. His touch was cold, almost mechanical, but you didn’t pull away.

"It’s always been about what’s left," Minho murmured. "And what’s left is mine."

you closed your eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a physical force. you could feel it—the darkness inside him, the decay that had taken root long ago. But beneath all of that, buried deep within the ruin, there was something still alive, something that pulsed weakly, but steadily.

His heart.

"It’s broken," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm. "You’re broken."

Minho laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "I’ve been broken for a long time, Y/N. But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew it from the start."

you opened your eyes and met his gaze. In that moment, there was no anger, no hatred. Just the two of them, standing in the ruins of what had once been. Fragments of what remained.

"I don’t want to fix you," you said softly. "I never wanted to."

Minho’s smile faltered, just for a second, and in that moment, you saw him. The real him. The one who had been hiding behind the cruelty, the madness, the darkness. The one who had been waiting, hoping, for something—anything—to change.

But nothing ever did.

"Then why do you stay?" Minho asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached up, your hand covering his, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you felt warmth. Not from Minho, but from the connection between you both—faint, fragile, but still alive.

"Because," you said, their voice steady, "what’s left is still mine."

It’s yours—that rotted heart of his, shriveled and shabby, riddled with holes and decay, half-eaten by maggots and worms it might be, but it’s still yours. Even when his eyes flicker with madness, when his smile curls at the edges, jagged and wrong, there's a part of him that never strays too far. You own the crumbling pieces, the ones he hides beneath layers of venom and spite. He may not admit it—he’d rather burn the world than speak it aloud—but in the quiet, in the spaces between his cruelty, it’s there.

Beating. Faint.

Still yours.

Love triangle: Minho likes Hannah, You like Hannah too (reader ends up with Minho)

OF INK AND CHARCOAL.

Artist! Hyunjin x Writer! Reader

Theme: sad, drifting away from each other, hope towards end

You sat by the window, your laptop open, fingers tapping idly against the keyboard. Outside, the sky was bleeding into sunset—the colors fierce and bold, blending like they couldn't decide whether to end the day or prolong the inevitable.

It made you think of the words in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar:

"I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, 'This is what it is to be happy.' But happiness, too, can feel like suffocation."

You often found yourself writing through that lens. Capturing moments that stood still, forever on the brink of something profound. But today, your mind was blank, heart weighed down by an inexplicable heaviness. It was like you had too many words, too many emotions, and no way to release them.

“I don’t want a box of fancy chocolates, I want you, sitting next to me”

The words were those that you said, yesterday was your 4th year anniversary, and he wasn’t home.

Or rather a house, because it refused to be your home, not anymore.

He thought you were overthinking, He said many anniversaries like this would come, that you both could spend them in amazing ways when things weren’t so busy. But that’s when it hit you—he actually believed you’d be together for a long time. That there were countless tomorrows waiting for the two of you.

He didn’t understand.

It wasn’t about the day. It was about him. About how he was drifting further away from you with every passing second, and he didn’t even realize it. People change; so did he.

He used to be your best friend, your confidant, the one who understood every silence, every glance. He could finish your thoughts before you even had to speak them. Now, the silence between you is heavy, tense, and unbearable. You’ve started to feel like strangers who share the same space but live in entirely different worlds. You’re still here, still trying, but him? He’s somewhere else.

You feel like strangers, when you meet a stranger, you smile, not out of undying love, out of compulsion.

He thinks it’s about the missed anniversary. But it’s not. It’s about all the moments that have passed with him not truly seeing you. You’re right there in front of him, but it’s like he’s looking past you, through you, at something else—something you can’t reach.

The problem is, he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t see how his distance is tearing you apart. How your conversations have become shallow, how the meaningful exchanges you used to have are now just brief, distracted words before he retreats into his world. You wonder if he even remembers what it used to be like, back when the two of you would sit in silence, and it would still feel full, still feel like everything was right in the world.

Now, the silence feels empty, a void between you that grows wider each day.

He spends more time with his art, disappearing into it. And maybe, that’s where he’s been hiding all along. You think of how he once told you that art was about capturing a moment, freezing it in time so it could live forever. But you don’t want to live in frozen moments. You want him here, now, fully present. You want him to realize that the distance between you isn’t something that can be brushed aside with promises of a future. It’s something that needs to be addressed now.

He’s always that you tend to dwell too much on feelings, on little things that don’t matter. But this isn’t little. This is everything.

You miss the way he used to look at you, the way his presence alone could make you feel whole. Now, even when he’s there, it’s like he’s somewhere else. You see it in the way his eyes glaze over when you talk, how his focus always seems to drift. You’ve started to wonder if he even cares anymore, if he even realizes that his absence—though physical—has become emotional too.

The truth is, you don’t care about fancy chocolates or grand gestures. You never did. You just want him. You want the man who used to make you feel like the only person in the room, the man who used to understand you without needing to ask. You don’t need extravagant gifts. You need his time, his attention, his love—the way it used to be.

But he doesn’t see that. He thinks there’s always time. That you can make it up later. But what he doesn’t realize is that every day he pulls away, a little more of you pulls back too. The cracks in your relationship are growing, and the longer they’re ignored, the harder they’ll be to repair. He thinks you’re just upset because of the anniversary. But this has been building for months, maybe even longer. And now, it feels like you’re both on the verge of breaking.

You wish you could find the right words to make him understand, to make him see what’s happening between you. But every time you try, you stop yourself. Because deep down, you know that he’s not ready to hear it. Or worse, he doesn’t want to.

People change. You’ve changed too, but you’ve grown in ways that are trying to hold onto him, while he’s slipping away into someone you barely recognize. And the hardest part is knowing that he thinks everything is fine. That you have time. That you’ll figure it out later.

But you don’t want to live in the future. You want the present. You want him next to you, really next to you, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, in every way that matters.

Because you’re tired of waiting. You’re tired of hoping that things will get better on their own, that the distance between you will magically close. You know now that it won’t—not unless something changes. Not unless he changes.

Hyunjin must have noticed the stillness, as he quietly approached.

He stood behind you, his fingers brushing against your shoulder, warm and grounding. you tilted your head back to meet his gaze, but his eyes were somewhere else—far off in a world you couldn't reach.

"Writer's block?" he asked softly, his voice like the brush of a fine-tipped pen over canvas.

You shrugged, looking out at the twilight, thinking of how words could so easily fail when you needed them most.

It wasn't that, and the fact that he failed to recognise that was proof, that he indeed is drifting.

"Something like that."

He knelt beside you, his head resting against your knee.

Hyunjin had never needed words in the way you did. His language came in strokes, colors, textures—the way paint blended into something more than itself, how the space between two figures could tell a thousand stories without saying a word.

He pulled out a sketchbook, his charcoal pencil already dancing over the page. He didn’t need to speak; his art was the dialogue. The curves and edges of the lines formed into abstract shapes, slowly coming into focus.

You watched as he sketched two figures—"us" he said. But something was different.

"You’ve drawn us before," you said, your voice softer now. "Why does this feel different?"

Hyunjin paused, looking at the sketch. "It’s not about us. It’s about the distance between us."

you stared at the unfinished drawing, your breath catching in your throat. "Distance?"

His hand traced the space between the two figures he’d drawn. "We’re close, but not touching. Like we’re in different worlds... I don’t know how to explain it with words, but sometimes, I feel like we’re speaking different languages."

So he did feel it.

It made you think of Picasso, how his blue period captured his own internal isolation—despair hidden in soft hues, sadness under every stroke.

Hyunjin smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "I think silence is a language all on its own. Just like your pauses when you write, they say just as much as the words."

The silence stretched between you both then, a moment so textured with meaning that words would have felt intrusive. You turned away from the window and faced him, the intensity of his gaze making you feel as though you were a character in one of his pieces—forever captured on canvas, never truly understood.

"Do you ever feel like we’re stuck in our own worlds?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You, with your art. Me, with my writing. Sometimes I wonder if we’re talking past each other."

He frowned, his fingers pausing over the sketchbook. "Sometimes, yes. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think we’re just... translating differently."

You suddenly remembered a quote from

Murakami's Norwegian Wood:

"What happens when people open their hearts?" I asked. "They get better," she said.

You wanted to believe that. That even in the silence between you both, even in the spaces, that you were opening your hearts in the only ways you knew how.

"I write because I want to make sense of things," You said quietly. "But you—" You hesitated, unsure if you were getting it right. "You create to express what can’t be made sense of, don’t you?"

He smiled, his eyes softening. "Exactly."

For Hyunjin, art was never about answers. It was about capturing moments that words could never fully express. He often spoke of how Van Gogh’s Starry Night wasn’t about the sky or the stars—it was about feeling the vastness of everything and knowing you were a part of it, yet so far away from touching it all.

He slid the sketchbook toward you, and you stared at the drawing again. The figures—"us"—still remained apart. But this time, you noticed something you hadn’t before. The way his hand had darkened the space between 'us', as if to suggest that the distance wasn’t empty, but full of unsaid things.

"This is how I feel when you’re lost in your stories," Hyunjin said. "Like you’re right next to me, but your mind is miles away. I don’t know if you’re with me or somewhere else."

you ran my fingers over the page, over the shadowed space. "Maybe that’s just how we’re meant to be. Maybe that space is what gives us room to grow."

He watched me for a moment, his lips parting as if to say something, but then he paused. Instead, he reached for his paintbrush, dipped it in blue, and ran it over the page. The blue spilled between the figures, a vibrant, living thing, connecting us in a way the lines alone couldn’t.

"It’s not about closing the distance," he murmured. "It’s about filling it with something meaningful."

You sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in. How you had both been trying to make sense of the space between yourselves in your own ways—you with your words, him with his art. But maybe Hyunjin was right. Maybe the space wasn’t something to fear or fill, but to cherish. A space where your worlds could coexist without fully merging.

"Virginia Woolf once wrote," You began, " ‘I am rooted, but I flow.’ I think that’s us. We’re both rooted in who we are—me as a writer, you as an artist—but we flow through each other’s worlds. We don’t need to be the same to be together."

He reached across the table then, his fingers brushing yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between you both wasn’t heavy. It was light. Full.

Hyunjin smiled, his eyes softening as he closed the sketchbook. "We don’t need words or paintings for everything. Sometimes, just being here is enough."

What's Left

Broken! Minho x Hurt! Reader

The night was heavy with the scent of rain and earth, the air thick and suffocating. Y/N stood at the edge of the crumbling balcony, their hand gripping the cold stone railing. The city below was cloaked in shadows, a sea of lights swallowed by the storm clouds gathering above. They had been standing there for what felt like hours, watching the world move on without them.

Behind them, Minho stirred.

"You think standing out here will change something?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade. Y/N didn't turn around. They didn't need to. They could feel him—his presence clinging to the air, dark and suffocating. It was always like this with Minho. He never stayed away for long.

"I don't expect anything to change," Y/N replied, their voice hollow, distant. "I just needed a moment."

"A moment?" Minho’s laugh was sharp, cruel. "A moment won't fix you, Y/N. A moment won't fix us."

Y/N’s grip tightened on the railing, knuckles white. The words hung between them, heavier than the storm that threatened to break above. They both knew it was true. Nothing was going to fix them—not the endless nights of silence, not the fleeting touches, not the words unsaid. Not even the twisted bond that tied them together could make sense of what they had become.

And yet, Minho was still there. He was always there.

When you finally turned to face him, Minho was leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette half hidden in the shadows. His eyes were cold, hard, and yet there was something in them, something fragile—something you could never quite reach.

"Why do you stay?" your voice was barely more than a breath, a whisper caught in the storm.

Minho’s lips curled into that familiar, crooked smile. It was the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. "You think I have a choice?"

Y/N didn’t answer. They both knew the truth. Whatever twisted, rotted thing existed between them, it had been there for too long. Minho’s heart, battered and broken, still belonged to you. As much as he tried to deny it, to fight it, he couldn’t escape the hold you had on him.

"You’ve always had me, Y/N," Minho said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. His voice was softer now, laced with something darker, something almost... tender. "Even if you don’t want me. Even if I’m nothing but a shell."

Y/N watched him approach, the storm rumbling in the distance. There was something tragic in the way Minho carried himself, as though the weight of his own existence was too much to bear. His eyes, once so full of life, were now hollow, haunted by memories neither of them could forget.

"It’s not about wanting you, Minho," Y/N whispered, their chest tightening. "It’s about what’s left."

Minho stopped just inches from them, his gaze locked on theirs. For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm, the wind howling around them, and the distant crash of thunder. Then, slowly, Minho reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. His touch was cold, almost mechanical, but you didn’t pull away.

"It’s always been about what’s left," Minho murmured. "And what’s left is mine."

you closed your eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a physical force. you could feel it—the darkness inside him, the decay that had taken root long ago. But beneath all of that, buried deep within the ruin, there was something still alive, something that pulsed weakly, but steadily.

His heart.

"It’s broken," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm. "You’re broken."

Minho laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "I’ve been broken for a long time, Y/N. But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew it from the start."

you opened your eyes and met his gaze. In that moment, there was no anger, no hatred. Just the two of them, standing in the ruins of what had once been. Fragments of what remained.

"I don’t want to fix you," you said softly. "I never wanted to."

Minho’s smile faltered, just for a second, and in that moment, you saw him. The real him. The one who had been hiding behind the cruelty, the madness, the darkness. The one who had been waiting, hoping, for something—anything—to change.

But nothing ever did.

"Then why do you stay?" Minho asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached up, your hand covering his, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you felt warmth. Not from Minho, but from the connection between you both—faint, fragile, but still alive.

"Because," you said, their voice steady, "what’s left is still mine."

It’s yours—that rotted heart of his, shriveled and shabby, riddled with holes and decay, half-eaten by maggots and worms it might be, but it’s still yours. Even when his eyes flicker with madness, when his smile curls at the edges, jagged and wrong, there's a part of him that never strays too far. You own the crumbling pieces, the ones he hides beneath layers of venom and spite. He may not admit it—he’d rather burn the world than speak it aloud—but in the quiet, in the spaces between his cruelty, it’s there.

Beating. Faint.

Still yours.