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buckyseternaldoll · 26 days ago

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Five Seconds, Five Years (Part I)

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✮⋆˙ Part II | Part III

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait?

Disclaimer: Heavy emotional angst, pre-Blip tension, mentions of impending war, proposal made under fear of death, sudden character disappearance (Blip), ambiguous loss, spiraling grief, trauma resurfacing, no body or closure, emotional collapse, breakdown depicted in detail, survivor’s guilt, mentions of Steve Rogers relaying death news. **This story stretches between several timelines in MCU (only loosely, not to be strictly following the year gaps)

Word Count: 4,543

The morning started with a light shower of rain.

You watched the droplets race each other down the windowpane, your breath fogging the glass as you leaned against the frame. Then—two soft knocks. You didn’t need to look. You already knew.

“Hi, doll,” Bucky said, voice low and warm with something close to reverence.

His hair was slightly damp from the spring rain, curling around his ears in a way that always made your fingers twitch to brush it back. His hoodie was soft and old, the sleeves bunched around his forearms—one solid and familiar, the other sleeve empty, folded and pinned neatly at the elbow. He looked tired—not in the physical sense, but in the bone-deep way someone looks after wading through ghosts every day. But he smiled for you. A small, worn smile that still made something in your chest ache with love.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in, and he walked in with the quiet of someone who knew exactly where he was going. The apartment hadn’t changed. Same lamp with the crooked shade. Same couch where you both had fallen asleep watching movies at 2AM. Same coffee table with the scratch he’d accidentally left with the blunt corner of his missing arm that first night you kissed.

He dropped his overnight bag beside the door, exhaled slowly, then turned to you.

“Still like chamomile?” he asked softly.

“Still need it to sleep,” you replied.

And just like that, like every visit before this, he melted into the space like he belonged. Because he did.

—

He never stayed long.

A few days at most—just long enough to fold himself back into the quiet corners of your life, like he’d never left. Just long enough to remind you what peace felt like in the shape of his hands.

Wakanda was still healing him—carefully, gently, methodically. Shuri had done the impossible, reworking HYDRA’s programming strand by strand. But even she said: healing isn’t a machine you can fix. It’s something you relearn, every day.

So he came back to New York when the shadows got too loud. When he needed something no vibranium tech could replicate. You.

He told you once, on one of those nights when he curled into your sheets like a man too big for peace, that he didn’t remember what love felt like before you. Only that with you, it was quiet. Safe.

“You don’t pull me out of the dark,” he said. “You just sit with me in it.”

You had no idea how much that would come to mean.

—

The night he proposed, there was fear in the sky.

You tasted it in the wind, felt it in his kiss—like the world was holding its breath, and he was holding you in case it collapsed.

He held you longer that night. Kissed you slower. Touched you like he was tracing every line of a goodbye letter he hadn’t written yet. You were half-asleep on the couch, your leg draped over his, one of his hands resting gently on your thigh while the city pulsed beyond the window. Everything felt like static—like something just out of reach was about to break.

Then he pulled a small velvet box from the pocket of his hoodie.

“I know this isn’t perfect,” he said. “It’s not candlelight or champagne. But I’ve spent so much of my life losing time—and I won’t risk losing this moment.”

He slid down to one knee, right there in the living room, ring in one hand, his other hand cupping your cheek.

“If I go… and I don’t make it back… I need to know I at least asked.”

“Marry me,” he said. “Let me go into whatever’s coming knowing I finally did something for me. For us.”

Your tears soaked his collar as you nodded yes and whispered, “Come back to me. I’ll be here. For you—always.”

—

You stood on the fire escape with your back to his chest, the city humming below.

It felt like a goodbye disguised as a promise. And you let yourself believe there’d be another hello.

He didn’t say much that morning. Just pressed his lips against your shoulder. Just held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

Before he left, he turned to you one last time, eyes impossibly soft.

“After this… if there’s still a world left—let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “Seoul, maybe. You always said you wanted to see the Han River.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “You remember that?”

He nodded, smiling softly. “You used to watch those Korean dramas in bed. Said you loved the way it looked—couples walking under cherry blossoms by the river, taking the KTX cross-country like it was something sacred. You said the peace there felt… quiet. Not empty.”

Your heart clenched. “I was learning the language. Thought if I really wanted to understand it all—the place, the people—I’d have to go live it. Not just dream it.”

“Then let’s live it,” he whispered. “I want peace. But more than that… I want you in peace.”

You kissed him once more.

You didn’t know it would be the last.

—

You didn’t see him disappear.

You weren’t even awake when it happened. The sun had barely risen over New York when your phone buzzed—once. Then again. Then relentlessly. The group chat with Sam. News alerts. A voicemail from Nat with no words, just labored breathing and distant shouting.

You sat up slowly, still in his hoodie, the ring box on your nightstand untouched from the night before.

Then came the knock.

Three times. Firm, deliberate.

You already knew.

You opened the door and found Steve standing there. Still in his suit. Mud on his boots. A small tear in the shoulder of his uniform. His shield wasn’t with him. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so hard it ticked like a clock.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You stepped back.

He moved like someone walking through wet cement—slow, deliberate, as though every step hurt. He looked around your apartment like it was sacred ground, his gaze falling on the framed photo of you and Bucky laughing in Central Park. He swallowed hard and finally sat on the edge of the armchair.

And then he said it.

“He’s gone.”

The words hit you like a blunt object. Not a stab—there was no blood. Just the absence of breath. Like your lungs forgot how to work.

“It was fast. Dust,” Steve said. “Just… dust.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared. Not at him. Not at anything.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Before the battle… he pulled me aside. Gave me this.”

From his pocket, Steve pulled out a small, worn notebook. You recognized it immediately. Bucky’s.

“He told me… if anything happened to him, if he didn’t come back… I was to find you. He wrote your name on the first page. Your number. Said, ‘She’s the only thing that ever made me feel like a man again. Please tell her I didn’t walk away.’”

Your knees buckled.

Steve caught you, arms strong and shaking all at once, pulling you gently to the floor.

“I’m so sorry.”

You weren’t crying. Not yet. You were too numb. The room spun in tight, slow circles.

“I need to see it,” you whispered.

Steve hesitated—then nodded.

He opened the notebook to the first page.

There, scrawled in Bucky’s neat, all-caps handwriting:

IF I DON’T MAKE IT BACK—CALL HER. TELL HER I WAS THINKING OF HER. TELL HER I DIDN’T RUN. TELL HER I LOVE HER.

Beneath it—your name. Your number. A little drawing. A tiny heart.

That’s when the screaming started.

—

You didn’t remember hitting the floor, but you remembered the sound of your scream.

Not human. Not you. Something primal, something that ripped through your throat and shattered into the walls around you. Your voice cracked. Broke. The notebook hit the floor. The ring box fell from the nightstand and landed with a hollow, damning thud.

You barely heard Steve calling your name. Felt his hands on your shoulders, grounding you, holding you like Bucky once did. You clawed at the couch cushions, the carpet, your own skin.

You begged. Pleaded. Not for God. Not for mercy. Just for one more second.

But there was no body.

No goodbye.

No grave.

Just dust on the wind and the weight of a love that had no ending.

You didn’t dream for weeks after that.

You couldn’t.

Because in every dream, he came back.

And in every one, he left again.

—

The first three days, you didn’t move from the couch.

The world around you buzzed in static—television left on, reports playing on loop. People screaming in airports. Planes crashing. Children disappearing from classrooms mid-laugh. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You watched the news like a zombie. Not for information—you already knew the only part that mattered. But some stubborn part of you hoped someone, somewhere, would say his name. Would tell you they made a mistake. That he wasn’t among the dead.

But the screen stayed silent. And you did too.

—

By the fourth day, the calls started.

Steve again. Sam. Natasha. Even Bruce. You didn’t answer any of them. Not because you were angry—because the thought of speaking felt unbearable. Like it would make it real.

You didn’t want reality.

You wanted Bucky’s half-finished mug on the counter. You wanted the hoodie he left draped on the kitchen chair to still smell like him. You wanted his voice—gruff and low and quiet when he called you doll—to echo in the hallway again.

You slept on the floor.

It was cold there, under the window, but you didn’t care. The bed still had the dent where he last lay. The sheets still smelled like the skin between his neck and collarbone. You couldn’t touch it. You couldn’t bear to lie there and know you’d wake up alone.

You left the lights off. You didn’t eat. You stopped checking the time.

—

Your body broke before your mind did.

On Day Six, you collapsed in the hallway—halfway between the kitchen and the bathroom. Hunger, dehydration, grief. You woke up with the side of your face pressed to the tile and vomit dried in your hair.

You didn’t bother showering.

—

The ring box sat on the coffee table like a tombstone.

You couldn’t look at it.

Sometimes you swore it moved. That the air around it bent a little—like the force of your grief made it magnetic. But maybe that was just the fever setting in.

By Day Ten, the plants in the apartment had all died. You hadn’t watered them. Hadn’t opened the windows. You couldn’t stand the idea of fresh air. What was the point of anything growing if he wasn’t around to see it?

—

The fridge smelled like something rotting. You ignored it.

Instead, you sat on the kitchen floor in the same clothes from the week before. A loose shirt that smelled like Bucky and a pair of sweats with a hole in the knee. You held his dog tags in your fist so tightly, they left deep red grooves in your palm.

You thought about drinking.

The bottle of whiskey in the cabinet had dust on it—he’d been the one to stop you from spiraling back in those first months together. Always said he didn’t want to erase pain anymore. Just learn how to hold it.

You opened the cap. Brought it to your lips.

And stopped.

Not because you had willpower.

Because you knew it wouldn’t work.

There was no numbness strong enough to kill what was eating you.

—

The world outside moved on.

People rioted. Protested. Some fell into religion. Some into madness.

You fell into silence.

Your voice, when you finally spoke again, was raw. Dry. You tested it in the mirror one night like it was a broken instrument.

“Bucky.”

It cracked in half.

—

You didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks.

When you finally did—just to get milk, just to do something normal—you ended up on your knees in the middle of the sidewalk three blocks away. Some man passed you and smiled the way Bucky used to. And that was all it took.

You screamed. Sobbed. Clutched the concrete like it would split open and deliver him back to you.

A woman called 911. You told the paramedic you didn’t need a hospital.

You just needed him.

—

You stopped wearing your engagement ring. But you didn’t take it off either.

Instead, you threaded it through your necklace and wore it under your shirt. It dug into your chest when you lay down. Bruised your skin. But you kept it there.

Because pain, at least, reminded you that you hadn’t died with him.

Not completely.

—

You weren’t even sure how you got there.

One moment, you were standing in your kitchen, clutching a mug you hadn’t touched in days. The next, you were staring at a blank clipboard in a community center basement that smelled like old coffee and damp carpet.

Someone must have signed you up.

Sam, maybe. Steve.

You didn’t ask.

You just sat in a plastic chair at the far end of the circle, your hoodie drawn up, sleeves long enough to hide your shaking hands. The metal folding chair felt cold through your clothes. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in almost a week.

The room was too bright. Too quiet. You hated it.

—

A woman with kind eyes and a voice like a lullaby welcomed the group. She said her name was Jess. She offered tissues before anyone even spoke. As if she already knew.

Around you, strangers began to talk.

A man with graying temples spoke first. He lost his husband. Just vanished while brushing his teeth.

A mother next. Her little boy turned to ash in a park sandbox.

A teenager. His twin sister. Gone mid-laugh.

You couldn’t listen.

Because everything sounded like static.

Because all you could hear—all your brain let you hear—was him.

—

“You chew your pen when you’re anxious.”

Your lips curled slightly. Not in a smile—just recognition. You looked down.

You were chewing your pen. The same way Bucky used to tease you about.

Your hands trembled. You slid the pen across the floor, out of reach.

“Let me do the dishes. You cooked.”

You closed your eyes. Your throat ached.

You could still hear him humming while he cleaned. That stupid 1940s jazz that you pretended to hate.

You remembered standing in the kitchen doorway watching him wash the plates—one-armed, stubborn, slow—until you came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed the center of his back.

He always laughed when you did that. Said it tickled.

“I like this one on you,” he murmured once, thumbing the hem of your sweater.

It was the sweater you were wearing now.

You curled your fists into it. Pulled the sleeves over your palms like armor.

—

You hadn’t realized tears were spilling down your cheeks until someone passed you a tissue.

You didn’t look at them. You just nodded, quietly, and held the tissue in your lap like it was glass.

—

You still hadn’t spoken.

And you wouldn’t. Not that day.

But someone sat beside you.

Not close enough to crowd you. Not far enough to feel like pity.

A man. Taller than most in the room. Wide shoulders. He said nothing. He didn’t stare. He didn’t fidget.

He just… sat.

His presence felt like a dim light in a locked room. Not enough to see by. But enough to remind you the dark wouldn’t last forever.

You caught his name once—said soft during introductions, almost like he hated saying it aloud.

You didn’t remember the name.

But you remembered his eyes.

They didn’t flinch when he saw your pain.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel invisible.

—

You didn’t plan to come back.

After that first session, you walked out into the gray drizzle of early fall and told yourself, That was it. Enough pretending. Enough people watching me fall apart.

But the next Thursday, you were there again.

Same plastic chair. Same empty hands. Same hollow ache under your ribs.

And so was he.

He never spoke first. Never leaned in. He was just… there.

Somehow, that was enough.

His name, you learned slowly, was Dean. He used to be a museum archivist. Lost his wife in the Snap—said it casually, like someone talking about bad weather. But you noticed the way his voice dipped when he said her name. Like he was still trying to hold onto it without cracking.

He never asked about Bucky. Not even once.

But when the others spoke of their losses, he never looked away from you. Like he knew yours ran deeper than words could reach.

—

Week three, he brought two mugs of chamomile tea into the session.

One slid toward you on the table without a word.

You stared at it for almost five minutes before lifting it with trembling hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Your first words in the group.

His only reply was a soft nod, like your voice was a fragile thing he didn’t want to scare away.

—

Your flashbacks to Bucky changed, slowly.

They used to come all at once—bright, vivid, crushing. The way his stubble felt against your neck. The way he’d lean his head against your shoulder without speaking, just breathing you in. The little notes he used to leave on post-its: Got groceries. Love you. Don’t forget your umbrella.

Now, the memories drifted in more quietly.

Softer.

You still heard his voice sometimes. Still caught the scent of his cologne on strangers in passing. Still reached for your phone on bad nights, forgetting—for just a second—that he couldn’t answer anymore.

But it hurt less.

And the guilt of that hurt in a whole new way.

—

One Thursday, weeks later, the group had to shift to a smaller room.

You ended up sitting closer to Dean than usual. Shoulder to shoulder.

You could feel the warmth of his arm through your sleeve. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

That night, walking home, your brain played a memory of Bucky helping you carry groceries—laughing as a bag ripped and apples rolled down the sidewalk.

You smiled, faintly.

Then you realized you hadn’t cried that day.

And you sat on the edge of your bathtub later that night, shaking.

Not because you missed Bucky.

But because you were starting to feel okay again—and that felt like betrayal.

—

A month passed. Then two.

Dean started walking you to the Metro. You didn’t ask him to.

One day, it rained.

You stopped under a shared umbrella, both of you damp and breathless from laughing—the first real laugh you’d had in months.

You looked up and caught Dean watching you, his expression unreadable.

Not romantic.

Not pitying.

Just… present.

Present in a way you hadn’t let yourself be for a very long time.

—

One night, after a particularly raw session, he spoke first.

“You know… when she vanished, I didn’t want to survive it.”

You turned to him, startled by the honesty.

He shrugged. “But then I realized… she’d kill me if I didn’t try.”

Your throat clenched. You looked at your lap.

“He used to say the same thing,” you whispered. “About me.”

Dean didn’t press.

Just walked a little closer that night.

—

By the time winter came, you could walk through your apartment without flinching.

You still had Bucky’s things.

You still wore his ring on a necklace.

But you didn’t collapse every time you looked at the spot where he used to sit.

Sometimes, you even caught yourself humming in the kitchen again.

You found yourself craving chamomile tea.

Not because it reminded you of him—but because it reminded you of you.

—

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no rose petals, no hidden photographers, no gasping onlookers.

It was quiet. Barely even romantic.

It happened on a Sunday.

You were walking back from the flower stall near the corner café—the one that had slowly become “yours.” Dean had picked up your favorite blend from the tiny tea shop on 12th. You had daisies in one hand, his in the other, and the sky had that late-spring haze that made everything feel softer than it really was.

It wasn’t a special day.

But it was a peaceful one.

And that was rare enough to feel sacred.

—

He stopped walking.

You turned when you noticed the gentle tug on your fingers.

Dean’s expression was unreadable—not nervous, not trembling. Just… full. Full of something warm and earnest.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“Not because I expect anything. Not because I need an answer right now. But just because I’ve been thinking about it.”

Your heart started to flutter. You knew. You knew what this was.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a box—small, worn, simple.

But you didn’t open it.

You stepped back.

Just an inch.

The shift in your eyes told him everything.

“Dean,” you said, voice tight, “there are still memories of him. Bucky. They’re everywhere. In my apartment. In my closet. In my head.”

You looked down, fidgeting with the necklace around your neck. The one with the first ring. His ring.

“Some days I still hear his voice. Some mornings I wake up reaching for him before I remember he’s not there.”

Your throat caught. You didn’t even notice the tears starting to gather.

“I don’t know if I can give you… a clean slate.”

Dean didn’t flinch.

He nodded, slowly, with something like relief in his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “I never expected you to.”

He stepped closer, took your hands again, and gently turned them over in his.

“You’re not letting him go. Just like I haven’t let her go, either.”

You looked up sharply.

Dean gave a soft smile. Not sad. Just real.

“She’s still here sometimes. When I make coffee in the French press. When I take the long way home past the bookstore she loved.”

“Grief doesn’t end,” he said. “It just… softens. Changes shape. We don’t bury them. We carry them. That’s what love does.”

You stood in silence for a long moment.

You thought about Bucky. The first time he’d told you he loved you. The way his laugh shook his shoulders. The promise of Seoul.

You thought about Dean, sitting beside you in silence every Thursday. Making space for your pain. Never trying to fix you. Just being there.

“You’re not a replacement,” you whispered.

“And you’re not broken,” he replied.

Then he held the box up.

“No pressure. No timeline. Just… maybe this could be our next chapter. One that we write slowly. With room for everything that came before.”

You opened the box.

Inside—a ring of pale gold, delicate, nothing flashy.

But there was a tiny engraving inside.

“Still here.”

Your lip trembled.

You nodded.

He didn’t slip the ring on your finger yet. He let you take it.

You slid it on, next to the weight of the one around your neck.

Two loves. Two lives.

And somehow, still, yours.

—

It happened in a blink.

One second, Bucky was in Wakanda—the dirt thick under his boots, the scent of fire and blood hanging in the air. He’d just raised his rifle. Just started to call out to Steve.

And then—the wind shifted.

The trees looked different. Taller. Lusher. Greener. The sky above was brighter, fuller. The battlefield was… gone.

There were birds singing.

Not screams. Not gunfire.

Just birdsong.

He spun around.

The spear Okoye had thrown was rusting in the grass. The ship that hovered above had long since vanished. There was no dust on his fingers. No ash on his coat. He checked his arm—the new vibranium still intact, just like it had been before he vanished.

But the world had changed.

He felt it.

Like walking into a memory too old to trust.

“Steve?” he called, breath shaky. “Sam?”

No one answered.

He didn’t waste time.

He got back to New York the fastest way he could—everything was a blur of panic and fire beneath his ribs. There was no time to understand. Not yet.

He had to find you.

He had to come home.

—

The sun had already begun to set when he reached your building.

That familiar stoop. The cracked step on the left. The faded welcome mat with the crooked “O.” It was all the same.

He climbed the stairs two at a time. His boots felt too loud. His heartbeat louder.

Then he stood at your door.

His hand trembled.

He knocked—twice. Just like always.

—

Inside, you were plating the steak.

The pan still sizzled on the stove. Garlic, rosemary, butter—the smell rich and comforting, spreading through the apartment like a warm blanket. Dean was rinsing the salad in the kitchen sink, humming softly under his breath.

It had been a good day.

You wore his hoodie. Your hair was up in that casual way Bucky used to love—but now Dean did, too. It was domestic. It was safe. It was… yours.

The knock made your head lift.

Two knocks.

You froze.

It couldn’t be. That rhythm—it was etched into your bones.

You stepped toward the door.

Dean looked over, still smiling. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” you said softly. “I… I don’t know.”

You opened the door.

—

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes.

Same shoulders. Same eyes. Same hair—curling at the ends, messy from the wind.

He was breathing like he’d run the whole way.

Your mouth parted but no words came out. The hallway felt too narrow. Too real.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice rough and broken. “It’s you. It’s really—”

Then he stopped.

Because Dean appeared behind you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed your shoulder casually, unaware of the hurricane that stood outside.

“Hey, babe—who’s—?”

His voice trailed off as he looked up.

Saw the man in the doorway.

Saw your face.

“Bucky,” you said.

A whisper. A gasp. A prayer.

—

The world tilted.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hands around your waist. To the ring on your finger. To your body, five years older.

He stumbled back a step.

You reached out instinctively—and stopped yourself.

He looked like he’d been gutted.

“You’re… older,” he said quietly. “How long—?”

“Five years,” you said, voice trembling. “It’s been five years.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“It was five seconds for me.”

His voice cracked down the middle.

Dean slowly, gently let go of your waist. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The pain on Bucky’s face said everything.

“I came back for you,” Bucky said. “I came home.”

Then he shook his head.

“But someone already did.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your hands were shaking.

Bucky took another step back.

“I thought… I thought I’d walk in, and you’d be waiting.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped his throat. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief. It was the kind of laugh you make when the world plays its cruelest card.

“I was just a few seconds too late,” he whispered.

And then he turned.

And walked away.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #જ⁀➴ by elle #post-blip bucky #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #bucky barnes fan fiction

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fandomele · 2 years ago

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I was making a big Christmas pack of headers and dash icons from Shadow and Bone (specifically from photos of its cast. You try to find pictures of Kaz smiling!) but I was hit by a headache, so I'll post 'part 1' and HOPEFULLY as soon as I get better I'll make part 2 but for now you get the alina-mal-darkling combo + a wild inej and jesper appearing.

below readmore other icons from these:

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kxsagi · 4 months ago

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"𝐚𝐮𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐞"

he’s done for. completely and utterly ruined by the way you kneel with quiet confidence that turns his bones to liquid. you’re only tying your shoes for goodness sake, and yet, kaiser is standing there like an idiot, watching the way your fingers move with effortless grace. he almost wishes they were somewhere else in that moment.

the soft tilt of your head, the way your lashes cast shadows against your cheeks… it’s criminal how you make something so mundane look so intoxicating, he thinks. his heart slams against his ribs, his throat dry as you glance up at him, one brow arched. “you okay?”

no. not even close.

you have no idea what you do to him, how his thoughts spiral with every tiny movement of yours. how he’d drop to his knees in an instant if you so much asked. how he’s already yours, completely, helplessly, and you don’t even need to lift a finger.

kaiser forces a swallow, running a hand through his hair in some weak and pathetic attempt to compose himself. “yeah, yeah, i’m good.”

liar.

a/n: header image credits go to kiki__2pink

#kaiser #michael kaiser #kaiser michael #blue lock #blue lock x reader #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x reader #he has a thing for kneeling for sure #this is for those of you coping with chapter 294 #auf die knie

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spideyns · 6 months ago

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malina headers

like if u save or credit @pmellarkrs on tt

#header #headers #book #books #book header #book headers #shadow and bone #siege and storm #alina starkov #starkov #aina #malyen oretsev #maly oretsev #malina #ravka #grisha #sun summoner #tracker #ruin and rising

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dior-luxury · 2 months ago

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HIYYA :)! i’ve been very into the childhood!best friends to lovers, so could i ask for that with: the itoshi brothers, karasu, and yukimiya. thanks so much :))

Childhood Friend To Lover

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] sae . rin . karasu . yukimiya

- [𝐩:𝐬] emotional isolation . parental neglect . fame pressure . angst . unspoken love . kissing . family conflict . emotional withdrawal . self-doubt . loneliness . injury . trauma

Note: This scenario with them is so cute 😭I can imagine them falling in love with someone from their childhood (Especially Rin & Sae). And them falling in love with you even more during Blue Lock when they're away from you is just- ugh 😔.

Sae Itoshi

You and Sae had been inseparable since you were kids. Your houses were right next door in the quiet suburbs of Kanagawa, and your days were filled with scraped knees, shared snacks, and endless soccer matches in the park with Rin trailing behind like a determined shadow. Sae was calm and sarcastic, even back then — a little aloof, a little too smart, but he always waited for you. Always passed the ball to you first.

He was your best friend. Not in the silly, fleeting way kids say it, but the kind of best friend who snuck out to watch meteor showers with you at 3 a.m., who came to your room when his parents fought, who said nothing but always made you feel better. He always noticed when you were off — always read your silences. You never had to say much. Sae just got you.

You were the only one who saw him cry when he got selected for Spain. He looked at you like the world was ending. “I want to go,” he’d whispered, “but I don’t want to leave you.”

So he left — and didn’t look back.

For five years, you didn't speak. He didn’t answer your texts, didn’t come home during the holidays. Rin got colder. You moved on, or at least tried. But Sae was a phantom presence in everything — in the sound of the wind at night, in the rhythm of a soccer ball bouncing on concrete. You never stopped wondering what you did wrong.

And then one summer evening, he returned.

You heard his voice before you saw him — deeper, a little wearier. “You still suck at headers,” he said from behind you on the field. And there he was, tall, handsome, different — but with the same sharp eyes and infuriating smirk. Your chest ached. You hated him. You missed him.

The first few weeks were awkward. You didn’t know how to act around him, and he acted like no time had passed. He still remembered your favorite ramen order, still teased you in that infuriating, gentle way. But sometimes his gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he touched your wrist and didn’t let go. You caught him watching you like he was searching for the version of you he left behind — or maybe falling for the one you’d become.

One night, during a storm, you found him outside your window, soaked to the bone.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “Not in Spain. Not here. Not anywhere.”

You let him in.

Sae kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment — desperate, slow, reverent. All those years of silence and missed moments melted into one long, trembling kiss in the dark of your bedroom.

“You waited for me?” he asked, forehead against yours.

“I never stopped.”

Rin Itoshi

You and Rin Itoshi were neighbors in a sleepy coastal town, where soccer balls thudded against concrete and cicadas buzzed like background music. You met him before the world broke him, before Sae left and shadows curled beneath Rin’s eyes.

As kids, you’d race your bikes to the beach, dig your toes into the sand, and talk about your future. Rin always wanted to be better than his brother. Always. But he was softer then—shy, thoughtful, and surprisingly funny when he let his guard down. You were his person—the one who’d read manga with him, patch up scraped knees, or drag him out for ice cream when his parents argued about Sae’s rising fame.

When Sae left for Spain without a word, Rin shattered.

He withdrew, colder, sharper. Soccer became war, and every smile became a rare relic. But not with you.

You were the only one he didn’t push away.

He’d show up outside your window at night, bruised knuckles, sweat still clinging to his collar. He wouldn’t talk. He’d just sit, knees pulled up, letting the silence wrap around him like armor—until you offered a blanket or held his hand under the stars.

In high school, you noticed how his eyes lingered on you longer. How he’d get strangely protective, narrowing his eyes at anyone who flirted with you. How he looked at you like you were the last safe place he had.

But Rin didn’t believe in love. Not really. Not when he thought everything he cared about left him. Soccer was the only thing that made sense. Until you.

When Blue Lock called, he told you through gritted teeth. “I have to go.”

You didn’t cry. You just handed him a small photo—your favorite picture of the two of you from the beach, back when he smiled more easily.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded, jaw tight, and turned away.

But he wrote. Every week. Long, messy letters with doodles in the margins and awkward attempts to describe his days. “I got MVP. Still doesn’t feel like much.” “Missed your dumb seaweed riceballs today.” “Saw the ocean and thought of you.”

When he returned, taller, sharper, eyes colder—you were still there.

And when he saw you on that same beach, holding the photo he left behind, Rin cracked. Dropped his bag. Pulled you into a hug so tight it hurt.

“You waited,” he whispered.

“I told you I would.”

And under that fading orange sky, he kissed you—gently, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hands trembled. But you held him like always.

Now, years later, every time he scores a goal and lifts his eyes to the stands, he looks for you. The one who never left. His first friend. His last love.

Karasu Tabito

Karasu Tabito wasn’t exactly a “good kid” when you met him. You were both nine—him with a black eye, a split lip, and a crooked grin that said, “yeah, I got into a fight again.”

He got into trouble before he got into soccer—always the one with smart remarks, messy hair, bruised knuckles, and a grin that didn’t quite match the pain in his eyes. You were the quiet kid, the one who read too much and liked watching clouds. Total opposites. Yet somehow, you ended up being his anchor.

Maybe it started because you were the only one who didn’t treat him like a delinquent. Or maybe it was the day you shoved a bandage into his hand after yet another brawl, mumbling, “Stop bleeding all over the classroom, idiot.”

From then on, you were his person.

Every rooftop lunch. Every call after a terrible day. Every silent moment where he could just be without pretending to be cool or invincible.

Karasu was chaos—but around you, he calmed.

He got into soccer on a dare. Typical. But he was good, terrifyingly so. His reflexes were sharp, instincts sharper. He played like he lived—unpredictable and fast. He got serious about it in middle school, and you were the first person he told.

“I wanna go pro. Is that stupid?”

“No,” you’d said. “It’s the first thing I’ve ever seen you care about.”

By high school, Karasu was popular, loud, magnetic—but no one knew him like you did. They didn’t know how he called you every night when his parents fought. How he’d show up at your house drunk off energy drinks, just needing someone to talk him off the ledge. How he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking—like you were the only thing that kept him tethered.

And yeah, maybe you started to feel it too. That flutter. That ache when he leaned too close. The way your name sounded different in his mouth than anyone else’s.

But Karasu was scared. Love wasn’t something he trusted. So he flirted with others, acted like it was nothing—but never crossed that line with you.

Until one night—your last summer before Blue Lock, when he climbed up to your window at 1 AM, eyes wide, adrenaline crackling in the air.

“I got in,” he whispered. “Blue Lock chose me.”

You hugged him, heart racing. “I’m proud of you.”

And then—you pulled back, eyes locked, and suddenly, it wasn’t pride buzzing in the air—it was years of tension, laughter, comfort. And he kissed you. Not soft or sweet—desperate, like he’d wanted to for years but never dared.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered against your lips. “But if I figure it out—I want it to be with you.”

He left the next morning with a crooked smile and a promise.

Now, whenever he scores a goal, he still mouths your name. Still sends you blurry pictures and dumb jokes. Still calls you when he can’t sleep.

Because even when the world calls him unpredictable—you were always his constant.

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya Kenyu was beautiful. Not just in the model-boy, camera-ready way—but in how he moved, how he spoke, how he existed. You knew him before the world tried to sculpt him. Before the illness. Before the fame.

You were his next-door neighbor in Kyoto. From childhood, you saw the boy who pressed flowers in books, cried at sad manga endings, and whispered prayers at the shrine on his way to school. He was fragile, even then. Asthma. Weak lungs. A shadow that always loomed—but he never let it stop him.

He loved soccer even when it hurt. Even when it meant collapsing on the field.

You were always there—at the edge of the pitch, with your backpack full of inhalers and water bottles and unwavering belief.

As you both grew, so did your bond. He was gentler than the other boys. Sensitive, graceful. But behind that softness was steel. Yukimiya wanted it. Badly. To prove he wasn’t weak. To become more than his illness. More than the pretty boy.

“I don’t want people to look at me and only see fragile,” he told you once under a cherry tree in spring. “I want to be limitless.”

And you believed him. Every step of the way.

Then came the diagnosis. His vision—going. Not yet blind, but the edges were starting to blur. He told you in a whisper, like a secret shame.

You cried. He didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’m still me. I’m still going to play. Even if it kills me.”

When Blue Lock summoned him, he hesitated. Not out of fear—but because he didn’t want to leave you behind.

So you kissed him.

Right there, by the train station. Years of buried feelings blooming like wisteria.

“I’ve loved you since we were thirteen,” you said. “Go. I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

And he went. With tears in his eyes, clutching your confession like armor.

In Blue Lock, he fought with elegance and fury. Not just for a goal—but to deserve you. To be strong enough for love.

Now, he still calls you when he has flare-ups. Sends you photos of sunsets he can barely see. Draws you in his notebook, even as his lines grow softer, blurrier.

When he makes the national team, he finds you in the crowd. He can’t see your face clearly anymore—but he feels you.

And in his arms, after the match, he says, “Even if the whole world fades… I’d know your heartbeat anywhere.”

#𝐃𝐈𝐎𝐑-𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐔𝐑𝐘 #bllk x reader #bllk scenarios #bllk x you #bluelock headcanons #bluelock reactions #bluelock x reader #blue lock x reader #bluelock x you #sae itoshi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #karasu tabito x reader #yukimiya kenyu x reader #bllk headcanons #bluelock fluff #blue lock scenarios #blue lock headcanons #blue lock fanfic #blue lock x you

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pinkpurplesunrises · 4 days ago

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Tides of Tenderness (Holding What Remains)

6000 words – the long story – Alexia Putellas x Reader - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Mentions of infertility and depression - Please read with care.

Writer's note: I'm back from a small break. This is still a scheduled upload though. I hope this story makes sense. It was kinda chaotic writing it. Hope I could describe the emotions as good as possible. Was feeling depressed myself when I wrote this, writing about it actually healed me a bit. I put some photos in the header for a change.

The final whistle wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

Not like silence.

Not like an echoing void.

Alexia stood alone in the cavernous locker room of the stadium. The very place that had witnessed her rise. Her glory. Her heartbreaks and triumphs. Now, it felt like a mausoleum of memories. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Cold and indifferent. Casting harsh shadows on the empty benches.

Her cleats clicked softly against the tiled floor as she took a slow, measured step toward the bench. The sound was sharp in the stillness. The ticking of a clock counting down a lifetime she thought would last forever. Her fingers trembled as she untied the laces, the movements automatic, mechanical.

Her jersey clung to her. Soaked through with sweat and the dust of the pitch. The familiar blue and garnet colors faded by the evening’s battle. It hung from her shoulders, heavy like a shrud. She sat down, the weight of years settling deep into her bones. The aches. The pains. The endless training sessions. The sacrifices and the victories.

But there was no victory today.

No cheering crowds chanting her name. No teammates rushing to embrace her. No glorious final bow.

Just silence.

She glanced toward the locker where her daughter’s small Barça jersey rested. Folded neatly inside. A constant reminder of the life she had built beyond the pitch. Martina was only three. A little whirlwind of energy and laughter who had become Alexia’s anchor. Her reason to keep moving forward after all the battles on and off the field.

Her phone buzzed softly in her pocket. She pulled it out and a photo lit up the screen . Martina, fast asleep, her tiny frame curled up in the stands with her grandmother. The colors of the club wrapping her in a protective embrace.

Alexia smiled. The corners of her mouth twitching despite the heaviness in her chest.

“You’re all I’ve got, chiquita,” she whispered to herself. Her voice cracking like brittle glass.

Retirement was supposed to feel like freedom. Like relief. Like the end of a hard-fought chapter with a triumphant final page.

Instead, it felt like an empty room filled with ghosts.

Ghosts of matches won and lost. Of teammates who had become family. Of dreams realized and those quietly buried.

She ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers tangled in strands that no longer bounced with youthful vigor but instead carried the weight of years and worry.

She was thirty-five. A mother. A legend.

But most days... she felt just tired.

Tired of fighting. Tired of proving herself. Tired of waking up to a silence that wasn’t just the absence of noise but the absence of purpose.

And yet, deep inside, beneath the exhaustion... a tiny spark flickered.

Because she had to believe there was something more waiting.

Something beyond the stadium lights. Beyond the roar of the crowd. Beyond the expectations and the history.

Something new.

Something that could heal.

She took a deep breath and stood. The creak of her knees reminding her that this was real. That the game was truly over.

And as she walked out of the locker room... the cool night air embraced her like a long-lost friend.

The next chapter awaited.

You sat alone in your small, dimly lit flat. The shadows of the evening stretching long across the walls. The quiet felt suffocating. Thick with the remnants of a conversation you wished you could unhear.

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

The words echoed inside your head like a broken record. A painful refrain that had become all too familiar.

You had told her. On the second date. With trembling hands and a voice barely above a whisper. You had braced yourself for the fallout. The disappointment. The retreat.

But it was always the same.

“I want kids,” they said, “but I don’t want to carry them. I thought you could… adoption is no option.”

And you had no choice but to watch them leave.

It wasn’t just that you couldn’t have children... it was the way it happened. Like a door closing before you even had a chance to step inside. Like a silent verdict passed on your worth. As if the inability to carry life made you less deserving of love.

You didn’t blame them. Not really. You understood. They wanted something you couldn’t give. But the pain of it never dulled. It carved itself deeper with every goodbye.

You stared out the window. The city lights flickering like distant stars. The hum of life outside felt alien to you. A reminder that everyone else seemed to be moving forward while you stayed stuck in this moment.

Another failed relationship. Another patch of your heart stitched up with scar tissue.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you could hold the pieces together.

Sometimes you wondered if maybe some people were just meant to be alone. Not in a tragic, soul-crushing way. But in a quiet, resigned way. Like a soft rain that never quite turns into a storm.

You had dreams once. Of a family. Of love that wouldn’t ask you to change. Of a future that wasn’t measured by what you could or couldn’t give.

Now, you just wanted peace.

The phone buzzed quietly on the table. A message from a friend checking in, maybe, or a meme to lighten your day. You didn’t have the energy to respond.

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tightness in your chest easing just a little.

Maybe love wasn’t about fitting into someone else’s expectations.

Maybe it was about finding someone who could see all the broken pieces and still want to hold them.

You didn’t know if that person was out there.

But you still had hope.

Because even in the quiet. Even in the darkness. Hope was the thing that kept you breathing.

The world outside didn’t move any slower, but you did.

Sunday mornings had become your sanctuary. You’d wake up late. Wrap yourself in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of lavender detergent and wander through the sleepy rhythm of the neighborhood.

There was a park not far from your apartment. just enough green to make the city noise feel like background static instead of something pressing in on your chest.

You went there more often now.

There was a community event set up today. Some kind of wellness fair for local families. Yoga mats were laid out in crooked lines across the grass and bright handmade posters advertised things like Mindful Motherhood and Healing Through Play. A man in a t-shirt that read Free Hugs (Consent First!) was being avoided by everyone.

You didn’t belong there. Not really.

But you stayed. Sat on the edge of a bench with a takeaway coffee that had gone lukewarm. It was just something to do. A way to not feel the echo of your apartment so loudly in your bones.

And then...

A little girl ran past you. Small and fast. Her sneakers flashing like lightning bolts. She was laughing. That wild kind of toddler laugh that came from somewhere deeper than joy. She looked back over her shoulder. Curly hair bouncing and nearly tripped over her own feet.

“Martina!” a voice called out. Firm. Tired. Gentle.

You looked up.

She was walking quickly. Catching up to the girl with long, practiced strides. Blonde hair in a low braid. Sunglasses pushed up on her head. Dressed plainly. Faded jeans, a soft t-shirt, sneakers that had seen better days. Not glamorous. Not polished. Just… real.

She scooped the girl into her arms and crouched beside her. “Cuidado, mi amor. You almost became one with the pavement.”

The girl giggled and grabbed her mother’s face with sticky hands.

And something in your chest shifted. A softness.

You looked away quickly. You weren’t trying to stare.

But then she turned her head. Saw you watching. And smiled.

Not the kind of smile that demanded anything in return.

Just… recognition. A moment shared between two strangers sitting at the edge of a world neither of them fully belonged to.

“She always runs faster than I think she can,” she said, stepping toward the bench and sitting down on the far side of it. Balancing the child on her lap.

“She’s fast,” you replied. Glancing over with a polite smile. “I almost didn’t see her coming.”

“She likes it that way,” the woman replied, grinning now. “She’s three. The goal is chaos.”

You laughed. Genuinely. It startled you.

The little girl looked at you curiously. Then shyly turned her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“She’s a little suspicious of new people,” the woman added softly, brushing a curl back from the girl’s face.

“I don’t blame her,” you murmured, then sipped your coffee and realized too late how bitter that sounded.

But the woman didn’t flinch. She just nodded. Like she understood more than you meant to say.

“I’m Alexia,” she said after a pause, glancing over at you, then back down at her daughter. “And this is Martina.”

You hesitated. Then: “Nice to meet you both. I’m…” You gave your name, still uncertain why this conversation hadn’t already ended.

Alexia smiled again. Soft. Tired. Genuine.

And for the first time in what felt like months, you didn’t feel the need to run.

You didn’t know who she was. Not really.

And maybe that was a gift.

Because all you saw was a woman with quiet eyes and a sleeping kind of sadness in her smile. A woman who looked like she had been both whole and broken, and was still standing.

And maybe... just maybe... so were you.

The door clicked shut behind you with a sound far louder than it should have been.

You didn’t turn on the lights.

You didn’t take off your shoes.

You just stood there. In the dark hallway of your apartment. Staring at nothing. The silence pressed in immediately. Like it had been waiting all day for you to come home so it could wrap itself around your neck again.

The visit to the park had felt like something. A flicker. A moment where the world tilted just slightly out of routine. That woman... Alexia... and her daughter, their presence still clung to the corners of your mind like static on fabric.

But now?

Now, it was just you again.

You walked to the bedroom without thinking. Shedding your hoodie in the hallway like a skin you didn’t need anymore. The bed didn’t call to you. It absorbed you. You didn’t even pull the covers back. You just dropped face-first onto the mattress. Shoes still on. Your arms limp at your sides.

It wasn’t sadness. Not exactly.

It was… nothing.

That heavy, dragging nothing. The kind that coats your limbs and dulls your thoughts. Like you’re trapped under a wet blanket that no one else can see.

Your phone buzzed once.

You didn’t check it.

Probably someone asking something of you. Time. Energy. A reply. Anything.

You had nothing left to give.

Lying there... your thoughts slowed to a crawl. Not even dramatic. Just tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

You stared at the ceiling. At the way the faint light from the street slanted in through the blinds. Painting pale. Shifting bars across the wall. You counted them without meaning to. Over and over. Just to keep your mind from slipping too far into the fog.

You thought about how people talked about loneliness like it was this sharp, aching thing.

But yours wasn’t sharp.

Yours was dull.

Quiet.

A steady hum beneath your skin that made everything feel too loud and too far away at the same time.

You couldn’t cry. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think past the next breath.

And even that felt like effort.

This had become familiar. The laying still. The weight. The silence.

The way the world narrowed to a single square of mattress and the hope that maybe... eventually... your body would stop feeling so heavy.

You weren’t broken. Not exactly.

But you were tired of being left behind.

Tired of hope turning into silence.

Tired of showing people the soft, tender parts of you only for them to flinch and step away.

And yet…

In the stillness, one image floated back into your mind.

A little girl with curls and sneakers too bright for the grass.

A woman with kind eyes who didn’t ask anything from you except a name.

It wasn’t enough to move you. Not yet.

But it stayed.

A tiny point of light in the fog.

You closed your eyes.

Not to sleep.

Just to make everything go away for a little while.

The train ride to Elí’s felt longer than usual.

Not in distance. Just in weight.

Martina sat beside Alexia. Her little legs swinging wildly under the seat. Her fingers sticky with the remnants of some juice pouch that had long since been drained. She kept humming a tune with no melody. No rhythm. Just joy.

“Ya vamos a la yaya?” she asked for the third time. Eyes wide with anticipation.

“Sí, chiquita. Ya casi,” Alexia said, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair.

It still amazed her. How much love a body could hold for someone so small. How it could coexist with exhaustion. With grief. With a thousand quiet fears she never had the time to name.

When they finally reached the house, Martina bolted up the stone walkway with the excitement of a comet. Elí opened the door before Alexia even knocked. Some maternal sixth sense honed over years. Still sharp as ever.

“Mi niña,” Elí said, bending to catch Martina in her arms. “You’ve grown since yesterday!”

“No he crecido!” Martina giggled. Her voice muffled against her grandmother’s neck.

Alexia watched them with a smile she hadn’t worn all day. She crossed the threshold behind them. Feeling the old floorboards creak in that familiar way. Like they remembered her steps.

Everything smelled like rosemary, lemon, and fresh laundry.

Home.

Later, after dinner... pasta, of course and bread too buttery to be reasonable... Martina grew quiet. Her energy curling in on itself like a cat ready to sleep.

“Venimos a leer, mi amor?” Elí said. Rising from her chair and offering her hand.

Martina nodded solemnly. Her curls a sleepy halo and let herself be led upstairs. Alexia stayed in the kitchen. Elbows resting on the table. The warmth of her tea bleeding into her skin.

She could hear the soft murmur of bedtime from the hallway: a lullaby hummed under Elí’s breath, the rustle of blankets, a whispered goodnight. It made her heart ache. With what, she wasn’t sure.

Ten minutes later, Elí returned, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Out like a light,” she said gently.

Alexia smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her mother tilted her head. Watching her for a long moment. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m always quiet these days.”

“Not like this,” Elí replied. Crossing her arms. “Your eyes are full.”

Alexia looked down at her tea.

“I met someone today,” she said softly. Surprising even herself with the confession.

Elí raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word. She waited.

“In the park,” Alexia continued. “She was sitting on a bench. We talked. Only a little. She didn’t recognize me.”

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. “Felt… nice, actually.”

Elí’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her eyes softened. “What was she like?”

Alexia paused, looking past her mother. Like the answer was written somewhere on the wall.

“Quiet. Sad, maybe. But kind. Real.” She swallowed. “There was something... familiar in her. I don’t know. We didn’t even talk long.”

“But she stayed in your mind,” Elí said. Voice warm, but laced with a knowing tone.

Alexia nodded once.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” her mother added, a little too casually.

Alexia groaned and leaned back in her chair. “Mamá, no.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re saying everything with your face.”

Elí laughed. Light and melodic. “I’m saying nothing. But I haven’t seen that look on you in a long time.”

Alexia rubbed her face with both hands. Like she could scrub the fatigue from her bones. “I’m tired, mamá.”

“I know,” her mother said. Her voice turning gentle again. “That’s why I won’t push.”

And she didn’t.

She just walked to the living room. Fluffed the cushions on the old sofa and turned down the lights. When she returned, she placed a soft blanket in Alexia’s lap without a word.

Alexia didn’t argue. She barely made it to the couch before sinking into it like it was the first good thing to happen to her in weeks. Her eyes closed almost immediately.

And as the warmth of the blanket covered her, and the sounds of the house wrapped around her like a lullaby, she thought... just before sleep took her... of a quiet woman on a park bench.

And wondered what she was doing now.

You weren’t planning to go back to the park.

But sometimes your legs moved before your mind made the decision, and before you knew it, you were walking the same path through the trees. Past the same benches and flyers and strollers and dogs that never quite listened to their owners.

You weren’t looking for anyone.

But some small part of you hoped.

And then...

There she was.

Alexia. Standing by the café cart just off the walking path. A hand on Martina’s shoulder while the little girl tried to climb the side of the cart like it was a jungle gym. Her hair was pulled back today. Gold catching in the late afternoon sun. She wore an oversized denim jacket and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

Still beautiful, though. In that worn, quiet way people sometimes are. Like an old song you hadn’t heard in years but still knew all the words to.

You slowed without meaning to. She glanced over and saw you.

A smile broke across her face... not big, not showy. Just real.

“Hey,” she said as you approached, voice soft, warm.

“Hey,” you echoed.

Martina looked up at you briefly. Gave a suspicious squint. Then returned to her climbing.

Alexia stepped slightly closer. Keeping one eye on her daughter. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Neither did I.” You hesitated. “But… I guess we’re both creatures of habit.”

That made her laugh. Low and short.

“I’ve only got ten minutes before she melts down from sugar and sunshine,” she said. Gesturing to Martina. “But I’m glad I ran into you.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Neither of you rushed to fill the silence.

That was something you appreciated about her already.

Finally, she glanced at her watch and sighed. “We’ve got to head out... nap window’s closing fast.”

“Understood,” you said with a small smile. “She seems like she runs the whole operation.”

“She does,” Alexia said. Deadpan. “I’m just the exhausted assistant.”

Another shared laugh. And then she nodded once. Grateful. Familiar. And turned to corral her daughter.

You watched them walk away until they disappeared past the hedge.

You didn’t think it would feel like anything.

But it did.

A quiet kind of empty.

You stopped by the café cart after. Needing something hot to hold. While waiting for your drink, you noticed something just under the edge of the cart bench.

A plush dinosaur.

Bright green. Worn at the edges. With one eye slightly off-center and a bow tied clumsily around its neck. You bent to pick it up.

On the tag, in faded pen:

“If found, please call or text: +34...”

You didn’t need to think twice.

You took a photo of the tag... just in case... and gently tucked the plush into your bag.

Back at your apartment, you stared at your phone for ten minutes before typing.

Then erasing.

Then typing again.

Finally, your message read:

Hi, I believe you left something at the café today. A green dino plush. Found it near the cart bench. If you're comfortable, I live nearby and you’re welcome to pick it up. No pressure at all. :)

You hovered over the send button.

Your thumb trembled just slightly.

And then... you sent it.

No typing bubbles. No immediate reply.

You placed the plush gently on the coffee table.

And waited.

Not with expectation.

But maybe with… possibility.

The day began like all the others.

Gray. Heavy. Like a thick fog had settled inside your chest and wouldn’t let go.

You’d woken up feeling the weight of it immediately. That familiar ache. The quiet ache that no one could see.

It started with your thoughts. Circling relentlessly.

Why am I infertile?

Why won't they love me for who I am?

Why can't a be a normal woman?

Infertility wasn’t just a word. It was a hollow place inside you. A secret grief you’d carried so long it felt like part of your bones.

You tried to push it away. Tried to do the things that were supposed to help. Breathing exercises. Journaling. Scrolling through old photos. But the sadness clung to you. Like wet clothes you couldn’t peel off.

Hours passed in a blur.

You hadn’t even looked at your phone all day.

Until...

A knock. Sharp. Insistent.

You sat frozen on your couch. The room dim except for the muted light sneaking through the blinds.

Knock knock.

Again.

Your heart jumped.

Who could it be?

You shuffled to the door. Fingers trembling as you opened it just a crack.

There she was.

Alexia.

Denim jacket, tired eyes, and a soft smile that didn’t quite reach the exhaustion beneath.

“I’m sorry to just show up,” she said quietly. “But Martina’s still upset… she keeps asking for her dinosaur.”

You blinked.

The plush.

You hadn’t even thought about it all day.

Your apartment behind you looked like a storm had passed. Clothes tossed on the floor. Books piled in odd stacks. Dishes half-cleared from last night.

Heat rose to your cheeks.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, stepping aside. “It’s kind of a mess.”

She smiled, stepping in anyway.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “We all have those days.”

You closed the door behind her.

The room was dark. The only light coming from the muted afternoon sun filtered through the curtains.

You gestured toward the couch. Feeling suddenly shy.

“Would you like some tea?” you asked.

She nodded.

You moved slowly. Still aware of the clutter and the weight in your chest. But somehow the presence of this woman felt like a small, fragile balm.

She settled onto the couch. The plush resting in her lap and for a moment the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

For something to begin.

Elí's house smelled like oranges and lavender again. Fresh. Calming. Familiar.

Alexia stepped through the door with the plush dinosaur in hand. Still a little squashed from the bottom of your bag. She’d cleaned it as best she could but it still had that faint comforting smell of you. Like coffee and quiet.

"Dónde está mi monstruita?" she called softly.

Her mother appeared in the hallway with a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” Elí whispered. “She’s still napping. Barely went down twenty minutes ago.”

Alexia sighed, smiled. “Figures. I rushed the whole way.”

She handed the plush over and Elí took it with a knowing smile. “The prodigal dinosaur returns.”

Alexia chuckled, slipping off her jacket. “She wouldn't stop asking for it. She even cried during lunch.”

“She loves her little routines,” Elí said, placing the toy gently on the side table. “And she loves feeling safe. That toy’s been with her since she could walk.”

They settled into the kitchen like they always did. Tea already waiting, biscuits on a plate that neither of them would touch but always put out anyway.

Elí watched her daughter over the rim of her mug.

“You’re quieter than usual,” she said finally.

Alexia shrugged, sipping her tea.

“I stopped by the apartment of the woman I met in the park. She found the dinosaur.”

Elí’s eyebrows lifted, just a little. “And?”

“It was…” Alexia shook her head. “Her place was a mess. I could tell she was embarrassed, but... I don’t know. There was something real about it. About her. The room was dark but it didn’t feel... wrong. It felt like someone was just tired. Like someone who needed a little space to breathe.”

Elí leaned back in her chair, one hand cradling her tea.

“So? What’s stopping you?”

Alexia blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You keep talking about her. That’s something. You went to her place to return a plush, and you’re still thinking about the conversation.”

“I barely know her.”

Elí gave her a look. The kind only a mother could give. “You’ve known a lot of people and none of them made you sound like this. Not in a long time.”

Alexia looked away. Out the window. Past the rooftops.

“I’m tired, mamá.”

“I know,” Elí said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t love. Or be loved.”

There was a silence then... soft, unpressured.

Elí placed her mug down, folded her hands over Alexia’s.

“Why don’t you ask her out?” she said softly. “For a coffee. A walk. Anything.”

Alexia opened her mouth, closed it again.

“You don’t have to fall in love today,” Elí added with a smile. “But you deserve to feel something again. And she looked like someone who needs that too.”

Alexia exhaled. Long. Slow.

“I don’t even know if she likes me.”

“Oh please,” Elí smirked. “Even I could feel the tension in your last text.”

They both laughed, quietly.

And then Elí leaned forward, conspiratorially.

“If you want, I can take Martina next weekend. A little abuela adventure.”

Alexia’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“She loves the train. We’ll visit that little beach town she liked last year.”

Alexia hesitated, then nodded slowly, a small smile blooming.

“Maybe,” she said.

“Just do it,” Elí whispered, squeezing her hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Alexia didn’t answer.

But she was already thinking of what she might say to you. What kind of message would feel natural. Light. Honest.

She didn’t know much yet.

But she knew she wanted to see you again.

It took her an hour to type six words.

Alexia sat on the edge of her bed after putting Martina down, the soft hum of the baby monitor crackling beside her. Her phone rested in her hand, the screen glowing in the dark. Her thumb hovered, retreating every time the words looked too forward. Too hesitant. Too unsure.

She wanted to say something casual. Light. Not like she’d spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about the shadow in your apartment or the way you’d looked at her like she wasn’t a footballer. Or a mother. Or anyone with a legacy to uphold.

Just a woman.

Just Alexia.

That had stuck with her. The quietness of it. The way you hadn’t tried to fill the silence. The way your eyes didn’t flinch at the mess. Not really.

She typed again.

Hey. I was wondering…

Delete.

If you’re free sometime…

Delete.

She dropped the phone on her lap and sighed.

Then, finally, she just wrote what was true.

Hey. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Just us. No plush toys involved. 😊

She stared at it for a long time.

Then pressed send.

And placed the phone face down on the bed.

You were curled up on the couch, an old hoodie wrapped around your frame, a mug of cold tea sitting forgotten on the table beside you. The day had gotten away from you again. One of those quiet slips where time didn’t really move. It just dissolved.

When your phone buzzed, you ignored it at first.

Then you glanced.

And your heart gave the tiniest kick.

Hey. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Just us. No plush toys involved. 😊

You stared.

Read it again.

And again.

Something in your chest shifted. Gently. Hesitantly. Like a flower beginning to bloom after too many cold seasons.

You didn’t rush to reply.

But you smiled. Really smiled.

Then you typed:

I’d like that. Just let me know when. :)

Simple.

But it meant more than anything you’d said in weeks.

You arrived five minutes early.

Then sat in your car for another ten. Trying to calm your heartbeat like it was something you could reason with.

It was just coffee.

She’d even said that. “Just us. No plush toys involved.”

Still, your palms were damp. Your stomach twisted itself into cautious knots.

You hadn’t done this in a while, not really. Not with someone who felt like they might matter.

When you walked into the little café she suggested, Alexia was already there. Sitting at a corner table by the window. No sunglasses. No protective shell. Just a woman with her hair in a loose braid and a ceramic mug in both hands.

She looked up as the bell chimed.

Her smile was small. Familiar.

“Hey,” she said, rising slightly from her seat.

“Hi,” you said, your voice too soft but steady.

You sat across from her.

“I hope this place was okay,” she said, nodding toward the counter. “They do actual tea here too, not just dishwater.”

You chuckled. “That’s already an upgrade.”

A silence settled. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just careful. Like neither of you wanted to move too fast.

You looked at her then. Really looked.

She looked... tired. But not in a fragile way. In a been-carrying-too-much-for-too-long way.

“How’s Martina?” you asked.

“She screamed when I told her the dinosaur was safe,” she said with a wry smile. “Then cried. Then fell asleep mid-tantrum.”

You laughed gently. “Sounds efficient.”

“She’s got my stubbornness,” Alexia said. Then added, “Unfortunately.”

You sipped your drink.

She did the same.

The conversation wandered slowly at first. You asked about her favorite books. She confessed she hadn’t read much lately but loved poetry once. She asked what you did for work. You shrugged and said it paid the bills, but maybe you weren’t sure who you wanted to be yet.

You both admitted you hated dating apps.

She confessed she once let Martina wear a tutu to the supermarket because she didn’t have the energy to argue.

You told her about the time you cried in public after a stranger asked if you had kids.

The air shifted then.

Just slightly.

She looked at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion.

With... understanding.

You looked down at your hands.

“Sorry,” you said. “That’s a weird thing to say on a first... not-a-date.”

“It’s not weird,” Alexia said quietly. “It’s honest.”

You met her eyes again.

There was something there.

Not spark or fireworks or a dramatic swell of music.

Something quieter.

Like safety. Like maybe you weren’t broken for good.

Like maybe someone could hold space for you... and not leave.

“I didn’t expect to like you this much,” she said, almost to herself.

You smiled, heart tripping a little over the words.

“I didn’t expect anyone to come back for a dinosaur.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh. And she leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders loosening.

The rest of the conversation was easier after that.

By the time you left, the sun was dipping behind the rooftops and your heart felt… softer. Less guarded.

Alexia walked you to your car.

She didn’t hug you.

But she lingered.

“I’d like to do this again,” she said.

You nodded. “Me too.”

Then you both stood there. Not moving. Not rushing.

Just breathing in the quiet.

When you finally got in your car and pulled away, she was still standing there.

And for the first time in a long time…

You didn’t feel so alone.

The morning sunlight felt too bright, slicing through your curtains like a spotlight you didn’t want.

You paced your apartment. Heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst free from your chest.

Martina was still with Elí for the day, which meant Alexia had reached out again. This time to say she was free, maybe for a walk or lunch.

You’d agreed, but now the nerves were flooding in.

Because today wasn’t just another coffee.

Today, you planned to tell her the truth.

About the infertility.

About the scars no one saw.

About why your past relationships always ended before they began.

Your phone buzzed.

I’m outside. Ready when you are.

You swallowed hard.

You wanted to run, to hide, to pretend none of this mattered.

But you didn’t.

You opened the door.

Alexia was standing there, a soft smile that made your chest ache.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, warm.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

You walked to the park. The same one where you’d met.

Your steps were uneven, your breath shallow.

When you found a quiet bench, you sat, fingers twisting in your lap.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, voice trembling. “Something important.”

Alexia nodded, waiting without rushing you.

“I… I can’t have children,” you said, the words like a weight falling between you.

“It’s why most of my relationships ended,” you added, eyes fixed on the ground. “Because when I tell people, they leave. They say they want kids but don’t want to carry them. So… they leave me. And it’s lonely. And it hurts.”

You looked up, expecting pity or maybe quiet judgment.

Instead, Alexia reached out and gently covered your hand with hers.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said softly.

Her eyes were steady. Honest.

“I’m sorry you’ve been so alone in that.”

You exhaled, relief and fear tangled in the same breath.

“I was scared you’d walk away too.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Her own voice cracked just a little.

“I’m a mother. I know what it means to love fiercely and to be tired. And to hope, even when it’s hard.”

You squeezed her hand.

“I’m tired too,” she whispered.

“But I want to try.”

You looked at her.

Really looked.

And saw someone who wasn’t perfect.

But was brave.

And kind.

And maybe... just maybe... someone who could hold all your broken pieces without breaking.

You smiled, fragile but real.

“Maybe we can hold each other,” you said.

She smiled back.

And the sun warmed your face like a promise.

A year later, the apartment felt too quiet.

You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your thoughts tangled in a knot of fatigue and restlessness.

It had been an off day. One of those days when even the smallest things felt heavy.

You needed space, needed to breathe without pretending everything was okay.

The soft hum of the city outside was distant, like a world you didn’t quite belong to today.

Your phone buzzed a few times, but you didn’t answer.

Alexia was away with her mother and Martina for the weekend, a little getaway to the beach town Elí loved.

You had encouraged it. Knowing how important those moments were for them. But now, left alone in the quiet, you felt the familiar ache of solitude creep in.

Just as you were drifting into that dull, heavy fog of loneliness, the door swung open.

A burst of energy filled the room. Tiny footsteps pounding. Laughter spilling.

Martina.

She sprinted toward you with arms wide open, and before you could react, she was jumping into your arms, giggling.

“Missed you!” she chirped, her warmth washing over you like sunlight.

You hugged her tightly, the weight of her little body grounding you.

Then Alexia appeared in the doorway. Cheeks flushed from the trip. Eyes bright with relief at seeing you.

She walked over and slipped into bed beside you. Pulling you close.

“Had a good time?” you asked quietly.

Alexia nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Best. But I missed you.”

Just then, the door creaked open again, and Elí peeked in, a gentle smile spreading across her face.

“I couldn’t resist,” she said, stepping inside.

Without hesitation, she joined the embrace, wrapping her arms around the three of you.

The room felt full. Full of love. Full of belonging.

You closed your eyes and breathed it all in.

Here... in this moment... you were exactly where you needed to be.

Not broken. Not alone.

Whole.

Epilogue

The sun was gentle that afternoon. Casting long golden rays over the grassy field where Martina kcked a ball with unsteady determination.

You stood beside Alexia. Both of you holding hands. Watching your little girl chase her dreams in a tiny Barça jersey. The same one Alexia had worn years ago.

Martina’s laughter rang out. Pure and bright. As she stumbled, caught the ball, and beamed when Alexia cheered her on.

“You’re doing amazing, chiquita,” Alexia whispered, eyes shining with pride.

You squeezed her hand, your heart swelling with a love you hadn’t dared imagine before.

Later that evening, the apartment was quiet and warm, Martina asleep upstairs after a day full of new memories.

You and Alexia curled up on the couch. The soft glow of the lamp casting a peaceful light around you.

You pulled a small, worn book from the shelf. A hidden diary of sorts, pages filled with notes and dates. Marked with needles and hopeful scribbles.

Alexia’s eyes widened as you handed it to her.

“I’ve never shown this to anyone,” you said softly. “All the injections, the hopes, the heartbreaks…”

Her fingers traced the delicate pages. Her expression tender and awed.

“But,” you continued, voice steady despite the lump in your throat, “I have a family now. A real family. One I never dared to dream of.”

You looked at Alexia, love pouring from your eyes.

“And you’re my home.”

Tears welled in Alexia’s eyes, shining like stars in the soft lamplight.

She pulled you close, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

In that quiet moment, past pain and fear dissolved.

All that remained was love. Fierce. Healing. And endless.

-------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: how was it?

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona femeni #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #my long story #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader

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angelseraphines · 6 months ago

Text

ೃ⁀➷ swan song ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! please be sure to check out their profile for squid game fanfictions, they have helped me with my works and their writing is perfection! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ the rain cascaded in a relentless downpour, burying the world in its somber rhythm. you stood motionless, soaked to the bone, your tattered black satin gown clinging to your pallid skin, pearls glinting faintly in the dim moonlight. across from you stood cho sang-woo, his tailored suit stained with smears of blood that had long since dried, a stark contrast to the high-class reputation he once upheld. there had been a time when the sight of him would have filled you with affection, a time when you had imagined him as your husband, the man you would spent all of eternity with.

˚ ༘♡ the man before you now bore no resemblance to the one you had loved so deeply. where once there had been kindness, there was now a malicious cruelty. the charm that had drawn you in, the quiet strength and righteous honesty, had been nothing more than a facade. before the games, your lives had seemed perfect, lavish dinners at exclusive steakhouses, extravagant shopping trips, the allure of wealth. yet it was never the riches that held your heart. you had loved him for the moments of vulnerability, the whispered dreams during midnight strolls, the promises of a future built on trust. now, those memories felt like lies, twisted shadows of a man who no longer existed.

˚ ༘♡ his grip on the knife was steady, the same blade he had used to take sae-byeok’s life. you could still see her fragile form laid on the ground, blood swarming under her stiff body as her she weakly murmured her little brother’s name. she had begged for another chance to see him again, her eyes glazed with fear and dread, only to be silenced in a merciless slashing. that moment was etched into your soul, an infested wound that refused to heal. you had pleaded with gi-hun to spare sang-woo when the opportunity arose, your love for him, a ghost of what it once was, still clinging to the hope that he could be saved. however, sparing him had been a mistake.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo had demonstrated no remorse. he had turned his blade on gi-hun after being confronted for sae-byeok’s murder, killing his childhood best friend with little hesitation, leaving you as the only two left to face the end. now, as the rain fell in endless torrents, you stood in the storm’s heart, the past unraveling between you. the love you had once cherished lay shattered at your feet, replaced by a chasm of betrayal and regret.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo,” you called out, your voice steady despite the quivering in your limbs. your gaze locked onto his, and slowly, deliberately, you let the knife slip from your grasp. it landed in the rain-soaked sand with a muted thud, quickly swallowed by the muck. droplets cascaded down your face, obscuring your vision, but you didn’t look away. “you’ve killed so many,” you said, your voice carrying over the storm, though faint and muffled. “innocent strangers, people who trusted you, those who loved you. i’m no different.”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw clenched as his face contorted with rage. “pick up the damn knife!” he shouted, his voice raw and jagged. his body shook, a mix of fury and something more fragile, a deep, unspoken torment etched into his expression. his eyes betrayed him, scorned and sorrowful.

˚ ༘♡ “i will not,” you replied softly, your soaked hair sticking to your melancholic face. “i won’t fight you. i can’t.” your breathing troubled as you continued, words tumbling out between the harsh pouring of the rain. “even if i won… what would it matter? what’s left for me to go back to? the money won’t mend this. it can’t rid what’s been done, the people we’ve lost, the pieces of ourselves we’ll never get back.”

˚ ༘♡ for a split second, his grip on the knife loosened, his fingers moving as though fighting an internal war, but just as quickly, they tightened. blood trailed down the cut across his face, mingling with the rain, streaking his skin with crimson. “damn it!” he barked, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “stop being so difficult and come here! let’s finish this!”

˚ ༘♡ “no, sang-woo,” you said firmly, taking a step toward him, unarmed, your hands open at your sides. “if the money is all you care about, if you’re so desperate to go back and see your mother, to undo all your mistakes, to lead the life you desire, to have a beautiful home, a loving wife, good children, then kill me. go ahead. take the knife and end the game.”

˚ ༘♡ tears burned your eyes, falling hot and salty down your face before the rain could wash them away. you moved closer, mere inches from him now, your voice low and steady, almost a whisper. “do it,” you murmured. “you’ll have to, or neither of us gets anything, and i won’t hurt you, sang-woo.”

˚ ༘♡ his arm lifted, the knife angled toward your chest. his jaw tightened, his breathing ragged, but he didn’t strike. the blade hovered between you, shaking ever so slightly. “i… i can’t kill you,” he said, his voice breaking as the words escaped him.

˚ ༘♡ “but you could kill sae-byeok?” you asked, voice hoarse, choking on your words, your lips curving downward in a frown. “you could kill gi-hun? their lives meant less than mine? sae-byeok had her little brother waiting for her, and gi-hun has a daughter who will never understand why her father didn’t come back.” your voice grew softer, mellowed by despair. “their lives were important, sang-woo. their lives held no less value than yours or mine.”

˚ ༘♡ his face became grim, a flash of anguish breaking through his hardened mask. “don’t you think i understand that?” he shouted, his voice catching on the words. his free hand pressed against his chest as though the pain inside was physical, unbearable. “i didn’t do it because i wanted to! you think i enjoyed it? you think i’m a sadist?” his voice cracked, his desperation bleeding into every word. “everything i’ve done… i had no choice! i have to fix this. i have to make it right. otherwise, what was all of this for? the sacrifices, the suffering, it will mean nothing!”

˚ ༘♡ the rain fell harder, drowning out the quietude, as his words hung in the air, each one more bitter than the last. you could see it, the guilt embedded into his aged face, the torment tearing him apart, but it didn’t undo the blood on his hands.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers wrapped around his trembling hand, guiding the blade to your throat. the cold metal kissed your skin, and your voice was composed despite the tears falling freely down your face. “go home, sang-woo,” you said softly, your grip strengthened to keep his hand close to you.

˚ ༘♡ his face was streaked with rain and tears now, his composure unraveling. his breathing was uneven, his chest heaving as he tried to pull the knife away. “i won’t do it,” he choked out, his voice hoarse, trembling with something between anguish and resolve. his fingers curled tighter around the hilt, but not to push forward, only to keep it from you. “i won’t kill you.”

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the rain pounding against the earth. your gaze shifted to the stormy horizon, staring blankly at the void ahead. “sang-woo,” you whispered, your tone solemn, distant. “do you remember that night you stayed over at my place? you said you liked my cooking, even though we both knew it was awful. and i laughed at all your ridiculous, outdated jokes and listened to your business jargon, even when i didn’t know half the terms you used, i liked being the woman you spent your days with.” a faint, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips, though it was short-lived, disappearing as quickly as it came. “that’s the day i remember the most. not the gifts, not the trips, not the money. none of it mattered to me. only mattered. i wanted you, nothing else.”

˚ ༘♡ his breath snagged, his lips parting to speak, but no words came. you turned your tear-streaked face toward him, meeting his tormented gaze. “it will never be like that again,” you said, your voice breaking. “we can’t go back, sang-woo. not after everything.”

˚ ༘♡ before he could react, you wrenched the knife from his hand with a sudden, sharp motion. his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he reached for you. but it was too far too late. the blade pierced your throat with brutal precision, and the warmth of your blood poured over your trembling hands. you staggered, the world moving and fading around you, your legs giving out beneath you as you collapsed.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo…” you murmured, your voice barely audible as you crumpled to the wet sand. scarlet-red ichor spilled out in thick rivers, melding with the rain-soaked earth.

˚ ༘♡ “no!” he screamed, his voice raw and broken, as he fell to his knees beside you. quivering hands reached for you, lifting your head from the wet sand as rain pelted down in icy sheets. his tears mingled with the blood streaking your face, his sobs shaking his entire body. “please, no… don’t do this,” he choked out, desperation lacing every word. “stay with me, please.”

˚ ༘♡ you opened your mouth to speak, but the words came weak, barely audible over the thunderous rain. “my… my family,” you sputtered, your voice thick with the blood flooding your throat. each breath was a struggle, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. “tell them… tell them i won’t be there anymore, okay?” your fingers, trembling and cold, lifted to brush against his bloodied cheek. your touch was feather-light, tender despite your waning strength. “sang-woo… please, don’t forget me, okay?”

˚ ༘♡ his face was agonized, tears streaming past the injuries that marred his angular features, it was rare to see him so emotional, so delirious with grief. “i won’t,” he swore, his voice cracking beneath the strain of his grief. “i won’t forget you. i’ll never…” he stopped, his words caught in his throat as he pressed his hands to the gaping wound on your neck, desperate to stop the flow of blood. it was a futile effort, the red blood spilled through his fingers, staining the sand beneath you. “please, stay with me,” he whispered, his voice shatterred into a sob. “don’t leave me. please. i can’t live without you.”

˚ ༘♡ his desperate efforts were all in vain. the life was draining from your body, the world dimming around you. your breaths came slower, softer, each one feeling close to your last. his frantic cries grew distant, muffled as if you were slipping underwater. your vision blurred, the storm above fading into oblivion. and yet, through it all, his face remained clear as could be, the pain in his dark eyes burned into your thoughts.

˚ ༘♡ the last sound you heard was not his voice, but something colder, emptier. an emotionless voice echoed through the air, chilling and robotic, void of anything human.

˚ ༘♡ “player 177, eliminated.”

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled one final breath, your hand falling limply from sang-woo’s bloodied face as the darkness consumed you.

a/n: another cho sang-woo fanfiction!! he’s my favorite character so there will definitely be more for him!!! please let me know you if any requests and your thoughts on this story! 🤍

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