#DIAGNOSIS CAR PROBLEMS

[carnationinstantbutch]

Sometimes I wish I had a device similar to those little blood test things diabetics use for checking insulin except for vitamins. Little tiny poke to see if i need b12 or iron or omegas. But I also recognize that that path leads to madness, the same way a fitbit makes you obsess over heart rate and sleep pattern and step count. And so I continue my usual pattern of waiting for something to Feel Bad before playing nutrition roulette.

[solomotorsportsalpharetta]

Behind the Wheel Confidence: Why Brake Service Matters for Your BMW X7

As you slip behind the wheel of your BMW X7, a sense of luxury and performance envelops you. From its powerful engine to its sophisticated design, every aspect of the X7 is crafted to provide an unparalleled driving experience. However, amidst the thrill of acceleration and the comfort of the cabin, there's a crucial component that often goes unnoticed until it's needed most: the brakes. In this article, we explore why brake service is essential for maintaining confidence and safety behind the wheel of your BMW X7.

Understanding the Importance of Brakes:

Brakes are arguably the most critical safety feature of any vehicle, including the BMW X7. They are responsible for slowing down and stopping your car safely, ensuring you have control in various driving conditions. From navigating city streets to cruising along the open highway, reliable brakes are indispensable for both everyday driving and emergency situations.

Preserving Performance and Safety

The BMW X7 is designed to deliver a harmonious blend of luxury and performance, offering powerful acceleration and responsive handling. However, even the most advanced driving dynamics are compromised if your brakes aren't functioning optimally. Over time, brake components wear down due to friction and heat, leading to decreased performance and potentially compromising safety. Regular brake service is essential for preserving the performance and safety features of your BMW X7, ensuring that you can navigate roads with confidence and peace of mind.

Maintaining Responsive Stopping Power

One of the hallmarks of the BMW driving experience is its dynamic responsiveness, allowing drivers to feel connected to the road with every maneuver. Central to this experience is the ability to bring your vehicle to a smooth and controlled stop when needed. Brake service encompasses more than just replacing worn brake pads; it involves inspecting and maintaining the entire braking system, including rotors, calipers, and brake fluid. By ensuring all components are in optimal condition, you can maintain the responsive stopping power that defines the BMW driving experience.

Enhancing Driving Comfort

In addition to safety considerations, brake service also plays a significant role in enhancing driving comfort. As brake components wear down, you may notice symptoms such as squealing or grinding noises, vibrations, or a spongy brake pedal. These issues not only detract from the driving experience but also indicate potential safety hazards. By addressing these symptoms promptly through professional brake service, you can restore smooth, quiet braking performance, enhancing the overall comfort of your BMW X7.

Protecting Your Investment

Owning a BMW X7 is more than just a mode of transportation; it's an investment in quality, craftsmanship, and driving pleasure. Protecting that investment requires regular maintenance and care, including attentive brake service. Neglecting brake maintenance can lead to accelerated wear and tear, premature component failure, and potentially costly repairs down the line. By staying proactive with brake service, you not only ensure the safety and performance of your vehicle but also protect the long-term value of your investment.

Conclusion:

Behind the wheel of your BMW X7, confidence is key. Knowing that your vehicle is equipped with reliable brakes that have been meticulously maintained instills a sense of assurance and peace of mind. From preserving performance and safety to maintaining responsive stopping power and driving comfort, brake service plays a crucial role in enhancing your driving experience. So, the next time you're on the road in your BMW X7, remember the importance of regular brake maintenance—because true confidence begins with reliable brakes.

[hrrtshape]

　　　how to banish resistance effectively , resistance is not some grand cosmic force, sadly, it's a habit. so stop. here's how.

you are not your thoughts. they are not a mirror, not a diagnosis, not proof of failure. they're just noise. when your brain spits out, 'this isn't working,' don't argue, don't spiral, don't even take it seriously. let it sit there. watch it fade. because it will. so stop identifying with intrusive thoughts. 

resistance only survives if you start negotiating with it. the second you start dissecting a doubt, you're trapped in its logic. don't play along. when you get a thought like 'what if this isn't working?,' just let it sit there unanswered, like an awkward question in a conversation you've already checked out of. give it nothing to work with.

resistance is only as powerful as the attention you give it. redirect your thoughts. immediately. to anything. every time doubt creeps in, think of something else. return to your assumption, your end goal, your desired reality. do it without hesitation. "but what if. ." no. "but i don't feel. . .," don't let resistance become the main thing. replace it, move on.

people act like doubt means something. it doesn't. it's just a feeling. a chemical reaction in your brain that passes, like hunger, like tiredness, like any other mood. let it exist without letting it define anything. don't resist it, don't analyse it. just let it float by like a passing car outside your window. not your car, not your problem. make peace with discomfort. 

assume your power. resistance is a relic of a mindset that no longer serves you. you don't have to fight it, you don't have to fix it. you just have to stop believing in it. act like someone who already has what they want, and let resistance dissolve into irrelevance. it was never real to begin with.

stop treating resistance like an enemy to be defeated. it's not a force, it's a habit. and habits break the moment you stop giving them power.

[szarina]

THE SNOWFLAKES ON YOUR SHOULDER

Zayne's an expert for fixing things including heart related problems and yours wasn't an exception. He can take apart your heart and fill the holes of your once shattered heart but can he really do it? When it is you who's refusing him now?

❆ ₊⋆ ──── notes. thank you for sticking until the end. i apologize in advanced for where this fic is going. if you can tell, i'm dumb af in everything and it does not exclude my own writing.

❆ ₊⋆ ──── taglist. @fandomenbylover @vurelliex @hi-itsmee28 @mentaltrouble2201 @agustdxjiminx @aboobie @samoankpoper21 @sylusgirlie7 @crazy-ink-artist @twilightsmissingfur @traumaramacenter @zeskyzed @lucifers-silhouette @milkmily @sillyfreakfanparty @babygirlarchives @what-is-this-fangirl-life @furinaaa1

❆ ₊⋆ ──── content warnings. heavy angst + description of injuries + car accident + blood + hospitalization + medical inaccuracies + implied noncon/dubcon + arguments + stalking + possessiveness + sabotage + grave injuries + jealousy + arranged marriage + lots of crying + ooc zayne + yandere themes + lots of grammatical errors + rushed ending.

READ PART ONE HERE. PART THREE.

It was a drunk driver.

The collision caused by someone behind the wheel under the influence of alcohol. Multiple witnesses stated that it was swerving side by side. Hitting the concrete barriers before occupying the next lane where misfortune is bestowed upon you. The car drifted before crashing into your car. You didn't have the time to avoid it for your mind merely registered what was happening — struggling to grasp your situation before you can hit the brakes.

Zayne was about to clock out for the night. Petrichor lingered in the moist earth and along with it, comes the night breeze caressing his skin. Then, he hears the familiar wail of the ambulance. The blue and red light dances in his vision as the vehicle approached — the sound of multiple footsteps echoed in the once silent medical bay.

Although Zayne was familiar with the emergencies running in and out of the hospital — there's the undeniable twist in his stomach. The wind colder and shifts into something more sinister like there was a disaster to struck and that's when the paramedics came rolling the gurney. It was you.

The surgeon wouldn't mistake it as someone else's even it was a glimpse, there was no denying it was you.

Zayne moved before his mind can think. There was no hesitation in his movements. A thousand assessments running in his mind, expecting all the possibilities and how to save you. Forgetting for a moment that a doctor isn't allowed to make diagnosis nor operate to a patient when it's their loved ones or someone they're closed to.

The reputation he even held at the moment of having accomplished multiple medical breakthroughs didn't allow him to get to you. Greyson whirring past from him as he joined the others.

For the first time Zayne have never felt so scared in his whole life, not even the time when he lost control of his Evol. Helplessly watching you disappear between the double doors and to plunge into unknown. No assurance of what to come. He sees you on his mind. It wasn't the angry tears streaming down your face that you desperately wiped that keep repeatedly playing on his mind — it was you drowning in your own blood.

He didn't even notice the crystalline layer of ice creeping up on his arms and to his shoulders. Blooming like flowers in his neck and covering his cheek.

SURGERY IN PROGRESS — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

It's been hours and long surgery hours means the trauma ranges from severe to grave circumstances. It wasn't his first gig to tell how worst a injury is. It was the results and results is the only thing that mattered to him.

Patience was Zayne's strong suits but from how the clock ticks by, every second and minute passing by and the coldness circulating in the ward — he was slowly losing it.

Greyson emerged within moments later. Surprised at him lingering outside the operating room.

“Dr. Zayne.” Greyson paused in greeting. His nerves settling in at the man in front of him before clearing his throat. He knows Zayne didn't want the unnecessary thoughts or what. He simply wanted to know the details.

“She's stable for now....” Greyson drawls out, trying to discern Zayne's reaction but was meet with the same stoic reaction. However the green in his eyes seems to darken and Greyson suddenly feels uncomfortable. “The injuries she sustained were beyond what we hoped to repair.” The spectacled brunette continued.

“The impact were severe and we were informed that the airbag of her car didn't deploy during the impact. She took the full force of the crash — multiple rib fractures caused internal bleeding we have to intervene before it got worst.”

Greyson paused again. His words dying out before coming out again. He feels like an intern again being poked out like a laboratory specimen under Zayne's cold gaze.

“The next hours will be critical for her, Dr. Zayne. She will be monitored closely and we will see how her condition progress.” That's all Greyson needed to say before leaving. He glances behind him. Dr. Zayne was really capable of showing stronger emotions. Greyson pondered while he walked. All the years he worked being an assistant to Zayne — is the first for seeing him like that. He's capable but to those who manage and it wasn't you.

Perhaps it was guilt that ate him up and Greyson couldn't care less about it. It wasn't his place to judge someone, not to Dr. Zayne.

Zayne made his way towards your room before going to his usual rounds with the other patients. His footsteps echoing in the quiet ward. It was barely morning when he came. A few hours reduced in his sleep when his nightmares consists of you — behind the steering wheel.

“You wanted this.”

He hears you say in his dreams. Blood bubbling up in your throat and the corners of your mouth trickles with the crimson liquid as you cough up more of your blood. Staring at him with your eyes slowly being drained of life. Your body riddled with cuts and your blood flowing from your arms as it drips in the concrete road. You drowning in your own pool of blood.

It was two days before the accident after your outburst. He was disconcerted after that when his gaze meets the cold hard door that you slammed shut. He never seen you so hurt before or he got used to you being silent and having to bear the burdens of him brushing you aside.

He was selfish. Taking you for granted and failing how you slowly turned miserable in this arrangement. He knows no love would bloom in this agreement for his heart belonged to someone else before he knew it and you knew it too.

In your own little ways you loved him without realizing and it destroyed you in the end.

The door slides automatically. Zayne had gotten used to the smell of disinfectants and clean linen in rooms but the never the sight of you laying still in the bed. Dead to the world outside. You would hate to see him being in the same room.

The room's dim and cold. Curtains shut cause it was needed for patients like you.

He checked your vital signs. Stable but never awake. Zayne thinks you're floating in your consciousness without planning to wake up cause he was with you. Waiting and watching. But how could you wake up when within a few hours of the surgery the night you were brought in. A bleeding in your brain was found causing seizures.

His colleagues have said that it was a miracle that you pulled through. Operations after operations was done and if you were weaker — you would have died before the next complications start.

The soft beeping of the monitors can be heard along with the air conditioner.

The cardiac surgeon pulled a chair nearby. He takes the sight of you. Bandages were wrapped around your head and there's more under your clothing. A few thin cuts in your face that was starting to heal. There's a jagged wound in your arm too. A glass shard was embedded inside upon impact. The bruises in your body were darker already entering the stages of healing.

It's already been a week now. His gaze soft towards you. He places his hand above yours. Clasping it gently and letting the warmth of your hand seep in the coldness of his own. Zayne looks back at you again and his hand holding yours. It's been long since he held it.

Should he have held your hands more? Should he assured you of what little security you needed with him? Or gave you the attention that you deserved?

None of it mattered. There's no use of pondering things that he should have done to you and for you to end up hurt by the consequences of his own shortcomings.

Zayne glances at the clock. It's time for his daily rounds with the other patients. He caresses your hand again before letting go. Adjusting the pillows for you to lay comfortably and gazes at you one last time before going out.

You woke up a month later.

It feels like you were in a deep sleep and to be awoken so suddenly. You squint your eyes for a few times. Slowly registering your surroundings. It was surreal. Weren't you just driving moments ago? And why can't you breath?

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as you desperately claw the tubes connected to you. Ripping the IV line in process that your arm began to bleed out. It only stopped when multiple hands came to hold on you. Nurses rushing to your side as the alarm blares from you yanking the tubes.

It was so sudden. You were scared and confused before the pain settles and burns the entirety of your body. Everyone was a blur to you and the lights blinded you.

That was a few days ago. You've gone multiple tests to check your recovery. Aside from the few broken bones. A risk of possible seizures that was assuredly ruled out. The latest technology for medicine have worked for you minus the coma that your brain have to do. You were healing nicely.

Zayne have made his appearance after you woke up. Staying by your side and barely left you. He takes your hand in his when you wanted to walk. Assisting you in your bathroom breaks and far as going to clean you up.

“A nurse should be doing this, right?” Zayne remains emotionless. His coat draped in one of the chairs and his sleeves are rolled while he gently wiped your skin. You were still in the midst of recovery. “Yes, it's theirs but as a doctor our duty doesn't limit on surgery and medical advices.” Your lips form into a tight line while you stare at him.

Your brain may have jumbled and bleed but you still remember the night where you poured all those bottled feelings to him and it still hurts. You wished you've gone what most comatose patients undergo through after waking up is that having their memories temporarily wiped or maybe completely.

Ignorance is bliss. That's what you lived for and you're about to abide by it — again.

Zayne noticed the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. He puts the damp cloth aside. Examining your face for any signs of discomfort. “Are you feeling any pain?” He asks softly and you shaked your head. “Just tired.”

I'm so tired of you. Of us.

It feels you were back to square one again. This time your tolerance for pain must upped cause it doesn't hurt anymore than it used to aside from the pain of your wounds healing. “I want to be left alone.” You mutter. Pushing yourself to the bed and propping against the pillow. Zayne pulls your blanket to cover you. He longingly stares at you and nods.

“You can call me anytime you want.”

You just closed your eyes and pretended you didn't hear him.

After a week of multiple scans, therapy and rehab, you were discharged. A follow up check-up were needed. You didn't care about it. All you can think is you're out from the hospital and you won't be seeing Zayne again or you hope so.

“I can take myself home.” You protested. Standing outside of Akso Hospital waiting for a taxi, Zayne beat you to it. His white coat long abandoned and was replaced by a darker one. You assumed he was just taking you outside until you see his familiar black Audi A6.

He didn't leave room for any arguments as he placed your bag in the backseat. He's assisting you even being seated in his car. Zayne hears you huff and see your round cheeks puffed up. You weren't good at hiding your frustrations. He paid it no mind before starting the engine of his car and he drives you home.

The car came to a stop outside of the black familiar gates. You raised a brow at him. “Do you need to pick something from your house?” You fiddle at your seatbelt. Zayne gave you a curt answer. “No.” Opening the door of his car, he turns around to open yours.

“What do you mean?”

“You are still recovering. A bed rest is needed for you to recuperate fast.”

Your brows scrunched up. “Then I can do that at my home. I don't want to be here.” Zayne ducks towards you, a click can be heard as he pulled the seatbelt. He shakes his head, unconvinced.

“Multiple rib fractures, a brain that is still at risk for developing future seizures. You need a professional to be with you and I'm more than capable of taking care of you. It's also beneficial for us to live under the same roof since we're about to be wed.” He say without stopping. Stating the pros and cons on what about to come and clearly, you didn't have a choice.

The last part made you snort. Bubbling in your throat before studying his expression that remains the same.

“Wed? You're going to torture yourself and me by continuing that? Come on, Zayne. It's not too late for us to end this. We'll have our separate ways and you will get your happy ending. Don't always try to play the thoughtful son. I'm sure daddy and mommy will understand you and so are mine.” You sighed, shaking your head in surrender.

“We're both adults.” You muttered under your breath but enough for him to hear it.

“We should save this conversation for another time.” Zayne's voice the same sharp tone and you sighed.

The vast garden wasn't enough to cover the whole residence where Zayne lives. The large windows occupy most of the walls. Letting the natural sunlight in, creating a atmosphere for relaxation. A spacious living room greets you. The color schemes mixes of white and gray with a touch of greenery in the corners. There's also a mezzanine which you assume is Zayne's office. A glass window were also placed there and he can see the entirety of the living room.

This is going to be your home. Temporarily.

You won't be staying in a house that doesn't feel like home with him. Someone who's heart belonged to another. Home is where the person is and you were a stranger but a intruder is more befitting way to call it.

Zayne hovers behind you as he guides you upstairs. Afraid that you'll trip or lose balance. Although he's against of you being discharged so early in the hospital. Knowing the risk and complications that your body have to suffer due to your internal injuries but you can be so headstrong at things and to avoid certain complications he gave up to your wishes in exchange that he's supervising your whole recovery.

He stares at you. Trying to gauge at your reactions but met with the same gaze as you scan the room. Muttering a small thank you under your breath again. Resigned at your current situation with him. As someone perceptive, Zayne knows what's currently going on your mind. You were tired and is still on the process of recovering. The wounds may yet to heal on your skin but deep inside your heart was long shattered and even he's in the expertise of curing heart diseases he can't fix what he broke.

Was he this dismissive and cold towards you during the times when you tried to initiate things? Of making efforts to gain his attention? Of trying to know him since although the match is wasn't you both wanted, you wanted to have a common ground with him and only to ignore you.

“Is the bed comfortable for you?” He asks, following your movements as he watches you take a seat in the edge of the bed. “It's fine.” You shrugged. “Can you leave me alone now? We both have a long day.” Shooting him a glance before looking down to your clasped hands in your lap. “I'll be back later.” Zayne curtly nods before he stops in his tracks like he's about to say something and then decided it wasn't worth it. You hear the door shut.

After a dinner meticulously prepared by him and watching you like a hawk while you eat. Making sure you were taking spoonfuls after spoonfuls of food that your body needed. You were back in your bedroom, dressed in loose pajamas. It was engraved to you to dress in loose clothings since it was needed for better access when doctors and nurses check your vitals. It was easier and you're not putting Zayne in more work and to stay longer with you.

The few buttons of your top were undone. Zayne methodically moves the diaphragm of his stethoscope pressed in your chest. “Breathe slowly.” He instructed you and you did. You weren't embarrassed nor insecure as he listened to the sound of your heart. You were literally poked and prodded while you were undergoing surgery and Zayne have probably seen you naked during your stay at the hospital. “Breathing's good. However I advice you to be in bed rest in the next days and some light exercise will do.” Spoken like a true professional. He takes his stethoscope and you button your pajama top.

“You can call me anytime, (Y/N).” You weakly nod. Your head hitting the pillows and pulling the covers up.

“Goodnight, (Y/N).” Zayne says to you as he reached your bedroom door. He was only meet with silence.

In the years of Zayne being a doctor, it was common for comatose patients to experience withdrawal and he understands what you're going through at the moment. You were in coma while the world continued to spin and everyone getting on with their lives but it wasn't just withdrawal you were experiencing. There comes the fear and the guilt after your outburst. He knows you were shaken up by the moment those words left your mouth.

It was his fault. He never should have made you feel the way of never being enough for him. He should have made his intentions clear towards you and not let you run around circles. Throwing you in a loop and only to destroy what left of your respect towards yourself. The conversation earlier in his car replayed in his mind. You wanted him to call off the engagement and go in separate ways. You were contemplating about it for a long time and finally have the courage to tell it to his face. There was no happy ending for this arrangement but Zayne was willing to try. Start over again with you and pick up the broken pieces of your heart. That leaves him to a question, is your heart still intact for him?

Dr. Miles Peterson — Chief of Trauma Surgery.

You briefly glanced at the name plate placed in his glass table before returning to your gaze at the man that was one of who operated you after your accident. Normally, the chief isn't typically involved with the check ups but since you're the fiancee of the esteemed cardiac surgeon — Dr. Zayne, the VIP treatment was there and it doesn't bode with you well.

“So far as good, your reflexes are back to normal and after the follow up scans everything seems fine. Are you—”

Before the trauma surgeon could continue, the glass doors opened and revealed Zayne. “Excuse me.” He greets, his gaze landing on his fellow surgeon before yours.

“Oh, Dr. Zayne.” You can hear the slight waver of his voice. Clearly intimidated by Zayne's presence. It wasn't also the age of the cardiac surgeon intimidated his peers but his achievements and pioneering on his chosen field of expertise although they were different.

The trauma surgeon, Dr. Peterson gestures for Zayne to sit down in the seat across yours. “Please, do not mind me.” Zayne speaks in his professional tone. The same even and measured of his voice still commands authority even in the simplest of conversation.

“So going back, Miss. Have you been experiencing any discomfort or lingering pains in the affected areas?” Dr. Peterson continued to ask you.

Zayne can see the slight hesitation in your face. The twiddling of fingers in clasped hands rested on your lap and he can see how you swallow. There's still the nervousness when you get to be questioned with certain doctors.

“She does.” Zayne cuts you off. The trauma surgeon's full attention was on him. “There's episode of phantom pains, the brain interpreting the affected nerves as signal for pain but there's no mistaking that her thoracic region is still affected by the injuries and is still in the process of healing. Aside from that the tenderness of her abdomen is long gone and is functioning well.”

“That's expected. It may take another months for it to disappear. Don't worry, Miss. With the right medication and therapy it will be gone in no time.” He explains and Dr. Peterson noticed the glare you were giving Zayne.

Uh, oh. Is there trouble in paradise? He thought to himself. It was the same look his wife gave to him. Sensing the tension in the air, he briefly ends the discussion.

This one was new scene unfolding in front of him. The great Dr. Zayne is having trouble with his relationship. He guessed not all relationships have the perfect touch of happiness and since Dr. Zayne is young, it was bound to happen. He lets out an exhale. Relationships sure takes hardwork.

“You don't have to accompany me in every check-up. I can manage it on my own.” You started, Zayne was starting to annoy you with his constant hovering over you.

“It is necessary. I need to know everything that happens to your body since I take care of you.” Zayne calmly explained as you walked besides him. His white coat abandoned and underneath that coat he usually wears is his three-piece neutral colored suits.

“I'm going home.” Spinning your heel around towards the nearest exit but before you can take a step, Zayne stops you. “No, I'm taking you home. Let me grab my things and we can go home.”

Fuck. Why was he so adamant in being this around to you? It was suffocating. If you were the same person before you got tired of him, of chasing him — you have jumped out of joy earlier but now, you want to be treated like air again.

It was difficult.

Zayne pushes the shopping cart while you walked besides him in the aisle of the department store. The grocery was quite depleted since you started living with him and Zayne was the one who usually picks up the needed stuff in the house along with a warm meal — it was the first time you both did it. Mindlessly and silent walking while you both take a look on the available items displayed in the shelves.

He was about to turn around when a familiar voice called out to him. It was familiar to you too. How could you forget that voice. Your body turns rigid. A lump forming in your throat. It was immediate. The tears forming at the corner of your eyes, pooling at your eyelids. You desperately fluttered your eyes in a series of blinks. Stopping the dam that was threatening to spill.

She didn't notice you. You can walk away and not see how they would lovingly gaze at each other. A silent romance that bloomed between them before time existed. You felt like a intruder. A villain who stopped them from getting their destined fate. Breaking them apart and no matter how you destroyed their bond. They will always come back and find each other.

“Zayne! Fancy seeing you here. I came to the hospital but you left early.” She cheerily greets him, her voice bubbly with the genuine air around her. She was so nice.

Sensing that you were about to run away again. Zayne firmly holds your hand in his and no matter how you tried to discreetly take your hand off him, he keeps the tight grip on yours.

“I apologize, I was accompanying my fiancee, (Y/N).” It was your time to finally meet her this close and with that, you keep your tears at bay. “Hello, nice to meet you.” Politely greeting her and even you wanted to cry, you muster the most sincere smile you can offer.

Concern was plastered to her face when she noticed the misty glazed in your eyes. “Are you okay?” She asks. You smiled at her gently. “Don't worry. It's just allergies. No biggie.” You assured her.

“Oh, I should be going to the restroom. Zayne can talk to you now.” You yank your own hand from him. Tapping his shoulder and smiling back again to her. You walked away from them with your held high and the tears that was threatening to spill earlier came rolling down your cheeks freely.

Thankfully, the restroom was vacant. Your tears were dried up, the moment you entered. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look ghastly. Shabby compared to her. You look at your sweater. Stained with the droplets of your tears. What are you a kid?

You reach our for a tissue. Dabbing it to dry the sweater. You look so stupid every time you look at her. The ugly insecurities that keeps surfacing after you buried showing up again and again. Everything's so stupid at you. Fucking choice of clothing. A oversized baby blue sweater and long dark denim skirt with white sneakers while she looks so chic in her red ruffled hem top with a open black sleeve shrug and a tight black jeans with her black combat boots.

She's everything you're not.

She's beautiful with all her charms. She holds Zayne's affections. We're you really that bad in your past life that you need to be punished so bad. To witness a love that transcends time without knowing each other and ending up in every timeline.

The texture of the tissue being repeatedly rubbed raw to your dampened cheeks caused it to sting. The tears continuously flowing and no matter how much the tissue soaks of your tears, it continues. The sink was filled with tissues soaked with your tears.

Your reflection was mocking you. Did the gods cursed you and granted you to be this ugly. You look so dumb right now. Crying your eyes out in front of the mirror and you convinced yourself you weren't hurt anymore.

By the time you were done crying, it looks like life was drained out of your face. Moisture was drawn out and your eyes are red in the rims. That's what you get for crying. You turned on the faucet and let the cold water run in your palm before splashing your face. You slapped your round cheeks. Taking a few deep breaths and checking your reflection again. Making sure your face are not that puffy than it's usual puffiness and your eyes weren't that red anymore.

It's okay. It won't hurt anymore. You tell to yourself. You'll break free from this farce of an engagement.

Zayne followed your retreating form and you got your eyes glossy again. The sight breaking his heart all over again. He looks at her. “I apologize, you can reschedule your appointment again. I must go.” He didn't wait for her response and followed you. Leaving a puzzled her and the abandoned shopping cart.

He take out his phone and presses the tracking app. It was needed. You have the tendency to wander off in your own and from the coordinates of your location you were still around the area. You weren't lying when you said you needed the restroom and Zayne waits for you outside.

“(Y/N).” Zayne calls out to you. He takes your hand in his. Linking it to his once again. “Let's go home.” Your brows furrow. “What about the groceries? What about her?” He shakes his head. The strands of his hair swaying to the movements of his head.

“It's nothing. We can do it another day. I'm sorry for forcing you out here. You're tired. Let's pick some takeout, okay?” He suggested and he pulls you closer towards him.

Was your hands were always this soft? Plush and gentle, a contrast to his own calloused hands. The slender digits perfectly fitting in your own pillowy ones. He should have held your hands more. The warmth of your own palms seeping through his colder ones. Providing him the safety of being yours.

That night, Zayne have watched you climbed up in the stairs. Shutting the door of your room. You didn't join him at dinner that night.

When Zayne made sure you were asleep. He slowly opens the door. He can make the outline of your plush body under the covers. Sleeping soundly after being jaded out by today's event. The bed dips by his added weight. Leaning towards your side. His elbow propped above your head.

He studies your expression. Gently gazing at the softness of your features. There's your eyes shut but cried so many tears because of him. You were not her. Although he feels they shared many lifetimes with no memories of it. She feels like home. The jasmines will always reminds him of her but what about you. You weren't at fault here. You loved him genuinely and in exchanged he hurt you.

Love must know sacrifices. He knows it very well. He did — a thousand times.

However when the night you were on that gurney, bleeding and unconscious. It was the first time he felt what it was truly to lose someone.

His fingertips grazes at the surface of your plump cheek. It was warm. “I keep hurting you,.... don't I?” He whispers. “I'm sorry.” It was a apology for being unfair to you.

“Mmm....” Your eyes fluttered open. Your voice riddled with sleep. “Stop hurting me, Zayne. Stop hurting us.” You slowly blinked and your breath goes back to the same steady rhythm and when he grasp your cheek. A tear rolled down from your eyes.

Of all the things he could have done. He presses a kiss to your temple. Staying for a minute by your side while he listens to your heart beat. Thump..... thump.... thump.... the sound of your heart beat, slow and steady. You were alive in his arms and the thumping of your heart lulls him to sleep and for the first time, he slept peacefully that night besides you. No nightmares to haunt him.

It must be your brain playing tricks on you or it was the side effects of your brain being squished from the accident. Last night, you went early to bed with your stomach grumbling but the tiredness washed over you then something cold grazes you. A voice whispering and you see Zayne. You mumbled something and then the drowsiness took you again and brought you back to your dreamland.

The images were eerily vivid and you can't differentiate if it occured on last night's bout. You only shrugged it off.

There's the faint sweet scent of pancakes drizzled with maple syrup as you slowly descended down from the flight of stairs and in the kitchen you see Zayne plating the warm pancakes.

He takes the glasses and placed it along besides your plates in the respective place. The steam from his mug filled with coffee dances.

“Good morning.” You greeted out of courtesy.

“We should eat together. You must be hungry since you didn't eat last night.” The neutral monotone voice of his is tinge with softness.

“Don't you need to be in the hospital now?” You asked out of curiosity. Lately, Zayne's been acting more hands on to you despite the speedy recovery and it totally weirded you out.

“I've got an hour before I go and you must eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and should not be missed.” He says, pulling out the barstool under the counter. You sit besides him.

Zayne watches you take a bite of your breakfast before starting on his. There's only the subtle sound of utensils clinking and a beat of silence before you broke it.

“Zayne?” You asked without looking. Focused on the delicious meal in front of you.

The surgeon pauses and then hums in acknowledgement. “I'm continuing my work at the museum.” You revealed to him and it's not like he can dictate what you want to do.

Working in one of the biggest museums in Linkon as a curator wasn't your dream job but it's something you certainly enjoyed. You only told him as being civil to him since you live in the same roof and you can get away from him.

Your fiance puts his cup down. The green in his eyes flickering with hardness before returning to its usual pallor. “Although I'm against the idea of you being back in your work, I must say it's better for the sake of your health. You've been cooped up here for too long.” There's a tinge of reluctance in his voice but you ignored it as you angled yourself to look at him.

He meet your gaze and you offered him a small smile. It didn't reach your eyes, Zayne noticed that. It was a look of politeness and resigned at the same time. Your eyes seems dull since that accident and the unexpected meeting with her.

His fingers twitches. The slender digits rising to reach yours but forms into a curl. He knows he's making it worst towards you.

The breakfast ended with no words being exchanged after the brief conversation.

That was mistake. A poor judgement in his part.

It was a logical reason on his part to allow you back. You have your freedom and a career during the duration of your nonexistent relationship with him. Arranged but never engaged to each other's lives. It's his own words but you made the efforts to support him and be involved in his life. In which he falls short of. He treated you like you were his obligation.

Now, he's getting the taste of his own medicine.

Zayne have been staring at his phone for the last thirty minutes. Barely glancing at the reports needed to be typed, the consultations that needed to be scheduled and doing his rounds. Waiting for the text message that will never come.

It was slow. The usual things you do for him slowly disappearing right before his eyes. His desk felt empty and devoid of any bright color that usually occupies his desk. There's always a sprig of jasmine in the corner. The one that you always brought with you when you visit him. Knowing the significance of it on his life.

How painful must it be to you that the flower was a symbol of his affection towards her and you kept giving it to him as reminder of their many shared lives.

A spectator. Silently watching while your heart breaks at any given moment. You didn't beg and wistfully respected his wishes. What truly hurts you is when the times he acted like he was being forced to be in your presence and you kept silent about it. Blaming yourself entirety for his shortcomings.

Zayne takes off his silver wired glasses. He sees the time in his clock and it was time for him to clock out and pick you up.

The museum where you worked at is one of the biggest buildings in Linkon. He parks outside near the exit where he knows you'll be appearing anytime soon.

It didn't take too long for him to wait for you. He was about to open the door when suddenly a man approaches you, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You were startled at first and from the looks of your relaxed body language, you knew the person. Accepting the flowers with a grateful expression before bidding a goodbye.

You saw him but you didn't bother to hide the flowers in your hands. You only greeted him and went to his car like you always did when Zayne started picking you up after hours of your work.

You stare at the space in front of you before looking at Zayne who was doing the same. His eyes fixated on the bouquet of flowers resting in your lap. “Who is he?” Zayne asks you nonchalantly. Studying your expression with a shrug you answered him. “It's Theo from work. A colleague.” Absentmindedly stroking the velvety petals.

“Why the flowers?” He clears his throat. Gripping the steering wheel before igniting the car, there's the faint thrum of the car and Zayne began to drive. You paid no mind to his question, not finding any sense or malice and it was harmless.

“Just celebratory flowers, I guess. Me coming back to work and recovering from the accident.” Your voice soft and sincere, he glances at you before returning his gaze to the road.

“And you don't see anything more to it?” You raise a brow at his question. There's a underlying meaning to it but it could be just your imagination.

“Yeah. It's just flowers and I think it's nice to receive them.” Focusing your gaze on the road.

“I see. He must have put a lot of thought on them. It seems he likes you..... A lot.” His tone wasn't accusatory but the usual same monotone voice and there's a weight on it.

“Why do you care? It's not you to meddle with my affairs. I'll admit I like Theo but it's the not the way you think of it. He's cool and the typical friendly colleague you'll find in a certain work jobs and I know there must be in yours too and I don't care about your relationship with others.” You let out a slow, heavy sigh. Something between frustration and disbelief.

“I apologize for upsetting you and implying that you're invested in your colleague's behavior towards you. It didn't strike me that you're fond of flowers.” Gods. Zayne was getting in your nerves these days and if it wasn't for his constant hovering, this one took the cake.

“I'm not and thank you for noticing. It doesn't hurt to receive flowers once in a while without asking.” You replied sarcastically, you didn't even realize that you were gripping the stems of the flowers before loosening. Apologetically caressing the almost wilted flowers.

You asked Zayne once about giving you flowers but that was your mistake. You thought girls asks for that kind of stuff but if he wanted, he could. It just didn't matter to him and that was the last time. You received flowers, many times but it doesn't mean anything special if it wasn't from Zayne, it's meaningless.

He knows but he didn't have the capacity to give it to you and you were stupid and naive for entertaining the idea that you're special to him. It was a well wasted time begging for his attention.

The ride all the way home settled in a silent one. You didn't even notice his hard grip on the steering wheel.

The peonies were a nice vibrant shade of yellows and pink. It was a nice arrangement with baby's breath being added and from the looks of your contented smile, you loved it before the familiar unshed tears glossing in to your dark eyes.

The twitch in your hands, the familiar rubbing of your thumb and index fingers together in your clasped hands. If he speak even a single word, you'll break again. That's why he remained silent. Seeing you cry because of him was painful enough and he's only giving you more reasons to be hurt — again and again.

He doesn't love you. Though the sight of you with a another man brought a sensation that he wasn't familiar with. His ears burn more like a tingling feeling. The sudden tightness of his throat and his chest felt like it was being weigh down by something heavy. A nagging voice echoes in his end although no words were said. The more he sees you smiling from the thought of your supposedly colleague who may have or have not feelings for you that is not entirely professional than what you think.

Is it jealousy he was feeling? It was such an ugly feeling. A cancer to one's being and he didn't like it one bit when you're close to someone who's not him. You can be distant to him as anytime you like but he can never tolerate you being close to others.

He finds you later at night in the kitchen. Clutching a piping bag as you carefully put dollops of batter into the parchment tray. A perfect circle for his favored baked goods. The sight feels of warmth. Seeing you wearing that apron dusted with flour and the other dry ingredients.

After tapping the sheet pan a few times to remove air bubbles, setting it aside to let it rest as you moved to make the filling. It was quite tasking, singlehandedly whisking the ingredients and Zayne joins you to your little baking session.

“You're going to develop carpal tunnel if you bend your hands like that while whisking.” He takes your hand from behind. His thumb gliding over to your wrist before holding the back of your hand. Gently guiding your own in small circles before putting enough speed and not to strain your wrist. He places his other hand to the other that holds the mixing bowl.

You didn't protest. Quite taken aback at the sudden gesture. You feel the hard planes of his body behind you. His gaze following your every move that he holds on his own. “You ought to teach me sometime.” He casually commented. Keeping his grip firm on yours. You didn't respond and it's only the sound of the whisk scraping the contents of the mixing bowl.

It took a few minutes before the filling reached the desired consistency. Zayne slides his hands above your arms before pulling. When he steps back to give you space, you turn around. Without warning he reaches forward. He gently lifts your face to meet his gaze.

He feels you stiffen under his touch before using his thumb to wipe the flour smeared to your cheek. “You got something here.” He caresses your round cheek. His touch lingering on your skin, mesmerized by the softness before his gaze landed on your lips. There's a slight tremble to your lips and he let go.

None of you dared to speak. Funny, he's taking interest now. You snapped and he made the efforts to reach out to you. To know you better. He's making up for the past neglect and you weren't angry anymore at him.

A small bitter smile is drawn to your lips as you take the sight of the baking tools cluttered in his kitchen counter. It was desperation when you first learned how to bake. Wanting to impress him with his favorite sweets once you learned he has a sweet tooth. It took trial and error. Then what once act of desperation turned into a hobby that you greatly enjoyed.

You realize all of your life was built on trying to get the cardiac surgeon's attention to you. From certain interests to personal choices.

Or perhaps it was his guilt that telling him to act this way. Turned the tables to care for you.

“You're really acting weird, Zayne.” A deep frown being etched in your face. You brushed the advances he did after the accident. You weren't in no mood to deal with those kind of affections.

“How so?” His voice gentle towards you.

“You never bothered to do stuff with me before. You always brush me off and now, this?” Your hand covers your stomach. Rubbing your side to comfort yourself. He follows your movement.

“Are you feeling guilt after the accident, Zayne?” His fingers twitched. His jaw clenches and something dark clouded over his eyes before returning to their normal. He was silent for a bit.

You take his silence as a cue to continue. “I got hurt days after my drunken outburst and you think it's your fault this happened and you're feeling guilty — You should stop doing things that should have made me happy if I were still my stupid self. I don't need you looking after me because you think you're responsible for all of this. I don't want to be treated like I'm a task that you can't get rid of.” You avoided his gaze. Nibbling on your lower lip.

The words stung. Part of it was true and the other half was a lie. Zayne did truly care for you. The nightmare that vividly appeared on his dreams while you lay unconscious in the hospital bed came surfacing.

You are his responsibility. Whatever the consequences of your actions or what happened to you is his to carry since you were about to be his wife.

He takes your remarks seriously. He leans in close towards you. “I admit it was guilt but I was wrong. I was scared. I was afraid that I've truly lost you and what I feel for you right now is entirely different.” He brushes his knuckles along your round cheek.

Zayne looks at you straight in the eyes. There is some emotion you can't recognize behind them but it spoke volumes of sincerity and tenderness. “You are not an obligation. You are my responsibility. The moment our marriage was decided, I vowed to myself that I'll take care of you. I apologize if it's not what you wanted. I'm not quite versed in this kind of things.” His voice trails off like he was unsure of his words.

“But when it came to her, it all feels natural doesn't it? Like it was meant for her.” You retorted. There was no harm in it. It was merely the truth.

“I'm not chastising you for it and I really don't blame you. I accepted it a long time ago. You don't have to pretend, Zayne.” You take his wrist before putting it to his side. Shaking your head slightly. A serene calm washing over you. It stung a lot but you weren't upset about it anymore.

“I'm not pretending, (Y/N). My relationship with her is strictly professional. That's all.”

Truth be told. Zayne was losing feelings for her. He made her relationship with her as nothing but a physician to his patient. There wasn't any outdoor activities besides the confines of his office. It was all for the sake of check ups and nothing more. And if he cared, it's the kind of care a doctor will give to his patient and nothing more.

He was honest. The moment the words left his lips, the realization dawns in. There was no longing or hesitation nor the conflicting emotions swirling behind his words. It was hard for you to accept it.

“It's all in the past now. What I want is in front of me.” His voice sincere, dangerously and surprisingly tender. Your eyes widens and he presses a kiss to your forehead. His arms wrapping behind you as he holds you in his arms. Your head on his chest. You didn't return his hug, your arms hanging in your side.

Despite all of that gestures, you can't shake the feeling that you were trapped now.

Zayne entered your room after knocking and he finds you sitting near the cushioned area by the window. Curled in the spot and your cheek is pressed in the glass window. Absentmindedly staring at the rain drops rolling down in the window pane.

You turned your head slightly to glance at him. Barely acknowledging his presence already used what he's about to do. The mandatory body checkups before you go to bed. He's on his sleepwear.

He sits across you, you have a enough space for him. You can feel his body heat through your pajamas. Warming your cold legs. “Is something the matter?” He inquires. Joining you in watching rain drops racing down. The downpour was still heavy outside.

You look at him, resigned. “Yeah.” His gaze softens, his gaze flickers to your plush body. The pajamas you wore fits to your body perfectly. He looks at you before you can notice his gaze wandering.

“I'm going to return to my home.”

“You are home.” His voice flat. Leaving no space for you to argue but your emotions were stronger.

“I'm not. I think it's the right time for us to talk, Zayne.” His heart skips a beat, not liking where this conversation is going but his face remains the same stoic look.

“You don't have to take care of me anymore and I don't want to be married to you.” You say it — loud and clear.

“Is this what you truly desire? What about your parents?” You didn't notice the way his gaze darkened.

“Yes. My parents will understand and yours too. We're both adults that won't be tied by their wishes and don't act like you don't have a choice. You'll figure it out.” He can see clearly the misty glazed of your eyes.

“It didn't have to be this way. We can both work it out.”

“No, it won't. I don't want you to only pay me attention when I'm injured or I'm in my death bed or I'm spewing curses at you. I don't want you being this sweet, clingy, possessive guy who gets upset at me being with others. You can be controlling too even you don't realize it.” You shifted from your position, standing up like his presence suffocates you.

“I don't want that, Zayne. I don't want to get tied to you. I don't want to be with you anymore.” Your voice cracks at the last line. Zayne stands up, approaching you.

“It was nice knowing you and I must have been lucky for a short amount of time for the way you took care of me.” You mutter under your breath and Zayne hears every syllables of your words under the silence of the room. He hears all of it. The small sighs you emit.

He cups your face in his hands. His expressions unreadable.

The roundness of your cheek, a perfect fit to his palm, like it was meant to hold you. A bitter smile appears on your face. A crystalline clear liquid flows down from your eyes before he wipes it with his thumb.

“Set us free, Zayne. I don't want to be hurt by you anymore and I don't want to hurt you. There's no point for staying in each other's lives.” The sound of your voice rings in his ears. He doesn't want to do it. He's into deep to let you go now. What once denied is being accepted and Zayne would rather drive himself into madness than let you go.

He leans to kiss you but you avoided his kiss before he can touch your lips. He only kissed your cheek and his eyes darkened.

“I won't.” There's a pregnant pause before he continues. The sudden drop of temperature made you shiver and you didn't know if Zayne was using his Evol. “ I won't let you go. You're mine. You were promised to me and I'm going to fulfill it.” He presses his body to your soft body.

“What are you doing?” Panic streaks to your once resigned voice. His touch rough. Gripping your pillowy waist with strength that borders on painful. There's a certain urgency on his voice.

“I'm showing you my undivided attention.” The room got colder as he spoke those words. A shiver running down your spine. You meet his gaze and to meet with those same flecks of gold in his green eyes swirling with emotion you can't discern. The coldness and was it darker than the usual?

You turn around to run but his hand caught your wrist. Forcing you to get back to him.

A cry rips from your throat as Zayne pushes you down in the soft duvet of your bed. He holds your head behind to soften the blow as your body collided on the bed and within seconds his hands pins your own.

“Zayne, stop!” You begged, frantically scrambling to escape his deathly grip. “I'm not going to stop even you beg and cry. I'm yours and you're mine. I have every right to touch you as I please.” His voice colder than the usual and you feel the full blow of it.

Tears streamed down your eyes as he forcefully kisses you. His lips were cold and the contact of your lips in his made it warm.

“No!” He hears you cry again. Pinching your side and it made you gasp. He wasted no time shoving his tongue inside you. Swirling his tongue in places he can reach. Tangling the wet muscle of his own to yours. “Mmph... — hah” Kissing you deeply as he can to show you how he can mark you as his own. Claiming you as his.

He moves your arm above with his hand still pinned on you. Leveled on your head and putting the pressure that you can't move the right part of your body while he kisses you. His brain and body moves in sync. Letting go of your left hand, his fingers deftly unbuttons your top. Pulling the remaining buttons until they popped. Revealing the warm, creamy texture of your skin.

“Ssh, don't resist. It's going to feel good soon.” He assures you and despite the relentless begging for him to stop, he didn't. Continuing the assault, his hand wandering from place to place. Mapping every inch of your body. Committing every detail of your beauty marks on his mind. He studied a lot of human bodies but yours were different. Lush and full with warmth that only you can give.

His lips traveled down to your chin and to the side of your neck. Adorning you with his kisses despite the incessant squirming. He will never let his guard down or give you the opportunity to escape from his hold.

You're soft. Undeniably soft. Your skin reminds him of those fluffy cakes he used to indulge himself with. Sweet and warm. The words repeatedly plays in his mind while he tastes your flesh. He made sure to leave a mark on your neck.

Your cries goes weak by the minute. The soft gasps you desperately muffles spills the more his hand wanders. He pauses. Staring at your face stained with tears.

What was he doing? This isn't like him but if it's only the way you can stay so be it. He can later reflects his action.

He takes your hand in his. Kissing your knuckles. You squirmed at his touch and you dared to look at him.

“If I stop, will you change your mind and stay with me?”

You remained unmoving beneath him. Another fresh batch of tears rolling down at the corner of your eyes.

“No. It won't change anything.” You meekly answered. Trying to escape his grasp.

“Very well.”

That is what you last heard.

The surgeon could get used to mornings like this. Waking up next to you, your naked body pressed against his chest and watch you sleep. Last night's exertions was too much for you to handle and he did try to be gentles as possible to you but his feelings took over.

The dark bruises in your skin was the testament of it and there's nothing like quite like it. He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck.

His cold hand caressing the exposed flesh of your body under the covers. His hand rests on your round stomach. It was a mesmerizing sight as he remembers it jiggling while he moves inside you. Kissing your tears goodbye, worshipping you like you deserved.

A thought crosses his mind. He don't mind having a child with you before the wedding. It makes his claim stronger towards you. A underhanded method that you won't ever leave him.

[sometimes-sleeby-octopus]

My visual studies class is driving me cuckoo bananas batshit crazy and if my teacher tells me I have to buy another hard drive I’m going to BLOW UP and vividly imagine wrecking the room because I already have TWO they are EXPENSIVE AND COMPLICATED and WHY THE FUCK DO I NEED ANOTHER ONE THERE IS NO WAY I’M USING THE FULL TERRA-BYTE ANYWAY I WILL FLIP MY DESK kill me NOW

[ghoulmore-girl]

🌙 Some love for your Moon by House🌙

Bestie, listen. Listen to me!!!! I’m gonna hold your hand through this because your Moon sign by house deserves HYPE, tenderness, and possibly a snack!!!!!

Your Moon isn't just what you feel — it's where those feelings live. The little emotional apartment in your chart.

Some of us have our Moon sobbing in the group chat (3rd house), some of us have it ghosting everyone to astral project into a forest (12th house).

Both are valid.

This isn’t a diagnosis (do I look like a Doctor to you bestie????), this is a love letter.

Your Moon placement is not a problem to fix — it’s a part of you that just wants a blanket and someone to say “yeah that made sense even if it didn’t.”

So here’s some cosmic praise for your softest self!!!!💗

1st House Moon

You are the vibe. You feel first and think later — your face is a live feed of your internal weather. You might try to hide your feelings but baby they’re showing up in 4K. You’ve got “I’m fine :)” energy with a dramatic moonlight glare.

You’re not dramatic — you're emotionally fluent in real-time. It’s brave. It’s raw. It’s honestly iconic. You teach people how to feel out loud. Your emotions aren’t a mask; they’re a mirror. People feel safer just being near your realness.

You’re a lighthouse in a storm, even if you are the storm sometimes.

2nd House Moon

You want feelings to be tangible. You don’t feel safe unless things are soft, steady, and maybe taste like cinnamon. You express love with snacks, cozy lighting, and high-quality emotional stability.

You want people to show up and prove it — not with grand speeches, but with consistent care. Your vibe is “I love you so I made you a sandwich and also paid your car registration.” Your inner child just wants a warm blanket and no surprises.

You are the definition of emotional security with vibes. Let yourself want the comfort you give so freely.

3rd House Moon

Your feelings come with footnotes, hyperlinks, and at least one meme. You need to talk it out, text it out, make a Google Doc about it. You probably process emotions in the group chat and make people cry laughing with your pain.

You’re emotionally quick and so smart about it. You feel safe when you’re understood, when things are explained, when someone listens and says “wait, go back to that part again.” Your inner world is a wordy whirlwind with a podcast voice.

Your thoughts are feelings. Let yourself ramble. You’re not “too much.” You’re emotionally multilingual.

4th House Moon

You are the soft place. Home isn’t just a place — it’s a feeling, and you carry it with you. You feel things like ancestral echoes. You're the kind of person who cries while baking cookies because it “feels like love.”

Privacy is survival, and you only let people in when they’ve earned it. But when they do? You love like a weighted blanket with emotional backstory. Your heart is half lullaby, half nesting instinct, fully precious.

You are allowed to rest. You are not responsible for being everyone’s sanctuary — you deserve one too.

5th House Moon

You feel through creation. You don’t cry — you start a chaotic new art project at 2 AM, write a poem that makes people emotional on Instagram, or flirt in the middle of an existential crisis.

You are dramatic, delightful, and emotionally performative on purpose. Because you know feelings deserve an audience. And sometimes, attention is love. Your inner child is loud, sparkly, and wants to be clapped for just for existing.

Let her. You are joy in motion. Your feelings are art.

6th House Moon

You do emotional logistics. You’re sad? Time to do laundry and alphabetize the spice rack. You love someone? You check their appointment reminders and refill their water bottle.

Feelings need a schedule in your world — or they sneak up behind you like a raccoon with a grudge. You feel safest when you’re useful, but you’re allowed to need help too. You deserve softness that isn’t earned by labor.

You are care disguised as routine. You are worthy of rest even when the dishwasher isn’t empty.

7th House Moon

You are the human version of “I just want someone to get me.” You process life through connection — the safe kind. The kind where someone texts you “do you want me to come over or leave you alone” and you cry either way.

Your emotional life starts in the mirror of others. Relationships aren’t just important — they’re your personal therapy + warm blanket combo. You give your all. You listen like it’s an art form. You want peace, but also? If they breathe wrong during a fight, you will silently spiral.

You deserve reciprocal love. The kind you give. The kind that doesn’t vanish the second you need it.

8th House Moon

You don’t just have emotions — you summon them. You’ve probably cried during a romantic scene and then wondered if love is just codependency in drag. You want depth. Meaning. Obsession, but in a healthy way. (We’re working on it.)

You feel things most people run from. You understand the hidden pain in someone’s offhand comment. You love like a secret poem. You’re healing generational trauma in your sleep and making shadow work look like a mixtape.

You’re not “too intense.” You’re just fluent in soul stuff. You deserve people who can meet you in the deep end.

9th House Moon

You’re the philosopher crying on a train. Your emotions are big, but they need a sense of meaning. A belief. A reason. You need to understand why you’re crying before you feel okay about it.

You feel safe when you’re learning, exploring, or planning your emotional escape route to a city you've never been to. You love through ideas. You crave conversations that get existential halfway through and end in group hugs.

You are allowed to not have it all figured out. Your journey is the answer. Let your heart be curious.

10th House Moon

You’re the CEO of “it’s fine :)” with a nervous breakdown in your drafts. Your emotions are always performing just a little. You feel safest when you're useful, admired, or emotionally composed in public — and that’s okay.

But you don’t have to earn love with excellence. You are not your image. You don’t have to prove your feelings are valid by achieving healing faster than everyone else. You are soft beneath the ambition, and that softness is holy.

You deserve emotional success — not just career wins. Your public face deserves private peace.

11th House Moon

You feel feelings collectively. You probably joined a group chat just to talk about your niche hobby and now you’re emotionally bonded for life. Your heart wants to belong somewhere — not just be understood, but belong.

You care about people. The world. Your weird little internet friends. You want love that feels like a community garden: mutual, chaotic, and made of inside jokes. You feel safest when you know you’re part of something that matters — even if it’s just a shared playlist.

Your emotions matter even when they’re not “useful.” You don’t have to hold the group together alone!

12th House Moon

You are feelings incarnate. You cry for other people’s pain like it’s your own, and you dream in entire metaphors. You are soft like sea foam and emotionally spooky in the best way. You don’t always know why you feel things — you just do.

You process life sideways, like a dream sequence. You crave solitude but fear abandonment. You give away your care like you have an unlimited supply, even when you’re secretly drowning a little. You’re intuitive, gentle, and deeply magical.

You don’t have to disappear to be loved. You don’t have to suffer to be valid. You are real even when no one sees you!

I hope you read yours and went “aw. yeah. that is me.” Because babe it IS.

Your Moon placement isn’t dramatic or broken or “too much.” It’s just the tender part of you that feels first — before the logic, before the mask, before the deep breath.

You are allowed to feel big feelings. To want comfort. To be a little emotionally feral on a Tuesday.

This world needs softies who feel deeply and still show up. You’re doing amazing!!!!

✨ Give your Moon some love today. Let it cry or laugh or eat something nostalgic. Let it exist without fixing it. You deserve that much softness, at the very least.🌙

_ Ghoul

[alexanderwales]

My son has been having some behavioral issues, so we've been doing arduous consultations and screeners and questionnaires to try to get some kind of guidance, which has been very frustrating. Everyone in the broad field of child psychology has said either "have you talked about autism" or "have you talked about ADHD", and sometimes both, because they're comorbid. But in order to get an actual diagnosis, you need to find the right people who are qualified to actually make a determination.

So a few days ago, this culminated in us finally talking to the guy who had the answers, at least according to modern child psychology, and he said that no, there's not really a basis for a clinical diagnosis of either autism or ADHD. There are still the behavioral issues, which are most of the reason we went for testing (along with some inattention, fidgetyness, sensory issues, and other things that are sometimes markers), but that's apparently something to work on with therapy and maybe will just go away as he gets older and matures.

But the other thing that the guy with the answers had to say was that maybe a lot of this can be explained by really high test scores in the cognitive stuff. We knew he was a smart kid, but the guy with the answers said that our son is three standard deviations above normal on all the cognitive tests, including an IQ test that I didn't know was a part of it, and that this is perhaps why he's so bored at school and difficult to keep engaged.

I think that's maybe part of the answer, but not the whole thing. I've been trying to prepare this child to not have gifted kid syndrome his whole life, trying to make sure he doesn't just breeze through everything and then crumble when he faces a challenge because he doesn't know what to do when something is actually tough. It doesn't matter how smart you are if you don't put in the work, if you can't overcome obstacles, if you coast through life. Those lessons do not seem to have sunk in at all, so I don't know.

But as we're getting ready to leave, my wife came in with her particular brand of humor.

Wife: So you're saying it's not too late to install some lead pipes in the house, right? That might be the solution to all our problems.

To his credit, the guy with the answers laughed, and then said, "yeah, or maybe asbestos".

Later, in the car:

Wife: Asbestos doesn't cause lower IQ. Me: Yeah, I know. Wife: I should have said something. Me: That would have been very awkward. Wife: Maybe he would have appreciated the correction. Me: I really don't think he would have. Wife: But you noticed too, right? My joke about lead was good, and his follow up about asbestos was bad. Me: My very first thought was "I hope she doesn't say something about this". Wife: You love me. Me: I do, but sometimes when we're talking to people together, I'm very aware of what you're going to say. Wife: It's not too late. I could message him. Me: I know you're joking, but please please don't. Wife: I wouldn't. Me: You wouldn't, unless it was funny. Wife: Yeah, and it would be hilarious, so ...

We at least know where the boy gets his tendency for pedantry from.

[katnipp]

mechanic!manon fic where she keeps flirting with yn using really corny car jokes and flexing her abs and muscles not-so-nonchalantly while working on yn’s car 😭

full throttle flirting— manon bannerman

genre: FLUFFF

synopsis: y/n’s car keeps breaking down, but maybe it’s just an excuse to see manon — whose jokes and smiles make the garage feel like home

—

the first time y/n walks into the garage, it’s because her car makes a noise that can only be described as “grinding” she’s expecting an old guy in oil-stained overalls and a weird beard. what she gets instead is abs.

and muscle. and a mechanic with a golden tan, calloused hands, and a tank top so ripped it’s honestly rude. manon stands up from behind a lifted camaro like she’s in a commercial, dragging a rag across her jawline and grinning like she knows exactly what she looks like.

“let me guess,” she says, eyes flicking over y/n. “engine trouble?”

y/n, brain short-circuiting: “uh yeah.”

“don’t worry, babe,” manon smirks, “i’ll treat her right. i’m good with my hands.”

⸻

visit #1 — the diagnosis

y/n sits on a crate and tries not to pass out while manon pokes around under her hood. every five seconds, manon drops a pun like a wrench. some are so bad y/n has to clutch her water bottle like a lifeline.

“your spark plugs are loose,” she says. “just like my morals when someone cute walks in.”

“you’re so unserious.”

“no, really. my heart’s revving up just looking at you.”

“that doesn’t even make sense.”

“neither does how good you look in this lighting.”

by the time the repair’s done, y/n’s not sure what’s overheating more — her engine or her brain.

“how much do i owe you?” she asks weakly.

“first visit’s free,” manon says, leaning back and shamelessly stretching her arms. her abs catch the sun like a greek statue. “unless you wanna pay me in digits.”

“digits?”

“you know. phone number. blood type. whatever works with you.”

⸻

visit #2 — maybe she sabotaged herself?

ten days later, y/n’s back. totally normal. not at all because she might have accidentally unplugged something under her hood googling “easy car problems that look real.”

“well, well, well,” manon grins, stepping out of the garage like she’s emerging from a thirst trap. “look who’s back to jump-start my heart.”

“i think something’s… clunking?”

“probably me falling for you.”

y/n might melt. this time, manon makes her hold the flashlight. y/n’s hand shakes slightly. when manon reaches up and adjusts it, she doesn’t let go of y/n’s wrist for a beat too long.

“better grip,” she says, like her fingers aren’t still curled around y/n’s.

“you could literally just say you like holding my hand.”

manon smirks. “busted.”

⸻

visit #3 — it rains. obviously.

her car stalls mid-turn. again. conveniently two blocks from the garage. she pushes it there in the rain.

manon answers the door wearing a sleeveless hoodie and boxers. y/n wants to cry. or pass out. or marry her on the spot.

“damn,” manon says, stepping aside. “you really know how to make an entrance.”

“my life is falling apart.”

“well, good news. i fix things for a living.”

manon hands her a towel, pulls her inside the garage, and grabs her a hoodie that hangs down to her knees.

they sit on the workbench while thunder rolls. manon leans back, wet hair sticking to her jaw, fingers absently playing with a socket wrench. “you know,” she says, voice soft, “my mom taught me everything in this shop.”

y/n looks up. “yeah?”

“used to build go-karts in the back with her.” manon shrugs, quieter now. “she said if something’s broken, fix it. if someone’s hurting, be kind. if a girl’s really cute and keeps showing up with car problems… shoot your shot.”

y/n’s heart stutters.

“was that part of the lesson plan?”

“might’ve improvised that one.”

⸻

visit #5 — grease and golden hour

the fix is minor. manon finishes early. it’s sunset. the garage is golden and soft and warm and smells like pine and oil and maybe something sweeter now — something like hope.

manon wipes a smudge of grease off y/n’s cheek with her thumb. slow. careful. thumb lingers a little too long.

“you’ve got something right…”

“is it charm?”

“i was gonna say ‘unprocessed trauma,’ but sure.”

they laugh. manon’s eyes soften. she leans in, bracing one hand beside y/n’s hip on the car hood.

“i gotta ask,” she murmurs. “are you really this unlucky with your car? or just incredibly bad at pretending not to flirt back?”

y/n breathes, “maybe i’m just into mechanics with god-tier biceps.”

“well,” manon says, eyes flicking to her mouth. “good thing i do full service.”

and then she kisses her

—

a/n: whoever requested this ILYSM.

[whateverloomis]

Sleepwalking hitchhiker 🌿

Note: For some reason I imagine them with a southern accent? Lmao. Could be a fun little detail, no? Anyways, part 2 with Stu?

🔞 Warnings: Dubcon, sexsomnia, GN!AFAB reader, age gap (Billy is middle aged, reader in their 20s,) fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie, reader is kinda bratty, suggestion of breeding kink, unedited

⚠️ Sexsomnia: Sexsomnia is a sleep disorder that causes people to act sexually while asleep. It's also known as sleep sex. 

You were driving back from a college party in the middle of the night, alcohol and weed in your system but not enough to stop you from taking yourself back home.

As you were approaching the highway there was a road block, cops and to-trucks all over the place. They were re-directing people to different alternate routes and you decided to take the old street to your house. One that used to be the main road until the damn highway was built.

The old road was dark and gloomy, you could barely see with the thick fog that was slowly accumulating and you sighed in frustration. The last thing you needed was to encounter a ghost looming through the mist or something like that.

Time passed and it felt like you were driving for forever. To make your night even more annoying your car decided to break down.

"Fuck, seriously?" you muttered and pulled up to the side of the road.

Sighing, you got out of the car and opened the hood. You had very little knowledge on cars but you figured that maybe if you moved some cables around you'll magically fix the problem. That was until smoke came out of the engine.

"Why now? Why this? Ugh," you closed the hood and got back in your car.

You grabbed your phone to call for help but of course you didn't have a signal. Why would you? You had two options; stay in your car and wait till morning or go outside and hope for a car to drive by to give you a lift. Its dangerous but you had no other option.

You decided to go outside and walk for a bit to see if you spotted anyone. 20, 30, 45 minutes went by and you were starting to give up until finally you saw headlights. A truck. Not just any truck, a to-truck.

"Oh my gosh, YES!" you shouted excitedly and waved. The person saw you and parked behind your car.

A man climbed down the truck. He must've been in his 50s and fuck, he's hot and you couldn't let it go unnoticed.

"Hi!, oh my goodness, can you help me out? I don't know what's wrong with it," you said, sounding desperate as ever.

"Yeah sure, pop the hood for me sweetheart," he replied and you felt the slightest hint of excitement course through your body at the mention of the pet name.

As you leaned down to pull the small lever next to the front seat your skirt rose up, resting just under your ass and the man smirked at the sight before walking to the front of the car to open the hood.

You followed and stood next to him, eager to get an answer. He was leaning over the front of the car and his light wash jeans were hanging loose by his hips, exposing his grey boxers. It was attractive. It was doing things to you that you shouldn't have been feeling given the situation, but you couldn't help it.

"Looks like it overheated. Seemed like it affected the battery too," he explained and you sighed in frustration. He looked at you before staring at his truck.

"I can take it to my shop and give it a look. You can tag along and crash next door at my place while I get this fixed for you. Sound good?" he offered and made it sound like the best deal you've ever received.

"Yes, that sounds great," you agreed and sighed in relief.

Before you climbed up the passenger seat of his vehicle you gave him the sweetest look and asked, "Oh, by the way, what's your name?"

"Billy. Billy Loomis," he answered

"YN," you said and he smirked at you before walking up to your car begining to hook it up to his truck.

Little did you know, Billy sprinkled a little lie within his diagnosis. The car did overheat, but the battery wasn't fucked, no. It was easy enough to get it running on the spot but he decided it was a great idea to disconnect the battery and "test it" before hooking it up to his truck. It was a wonderful idea to show you how your car doesn't work at all. Yes, it was definitely a great plan.

•

The drive to his place was filled with small talk and a whole lot of tension, however it disappeared when you saw his "shop". It was a wooden shed with a single lightbulb providing barely any illumination. Next to it was a small cabin, his house you assumed.

What had you done?

You really should've followed the "don't talk to strangers" motto but everything seemed so perfect... And maybe they were? I mean, why wouldn't they be? He looked nice enough. Good enough... Delicious, even.

Everything will be fine...

Once he parked his vehicle in reverse and positioned your car, you climbed down the mini steps of his truck and looked around the area.

"Follow me," he said, opening the door to his cabin.

The inside was surprisingly cozy. Small but charming.

"You can sleep on the couch while I work, it's gonna be a while," he explained and you nodded, barely processing anything. You didn't give a fuck what happened next, you just needed sleep...

Sleep walking. You were sleep walking around the house and Billy was observing you from the kitchen entrance. He was more than amused at the sight and chuckled at the situation before walking out into the shed again. He decided he'd deal with you later.

Making your way into the bedroom you somehow found his bed and laid there. It was surprisingly soft and comfy.

You've always had that issue, sleep walking was part of your life and you didn't think it would happen at a strangers house since you were aware of your surroundings, but no. And to make the situation worse, you started to touch yourself in your sleep too.

Sexsomnia isn't as common for you to experience but when it does happen you get out of control...

You ran your hands up and down your body slowly, pinching your nipples softly over your thin crop top and teasing the sides of your tits all the way down to your hips. The little moans coming out of you were loud enough for Billy to hear and he stopped working on your car once again to check on you.

When he walked in his room the sight he was greeted with was definitely a treat, you were rubbing your cunt under your skirt, underwear long gone. Your breathing quickened as you slid your fingers down and started to finger yourself.

Billy got instantly hard at the sight. A pretty little thing like you on his bed? Fingering themselves while asleep? What more could he ask for?

Without hesitating the man kicked off his work boots and walked over to you. He observed to confirm that you were actually asleep before running his big hand over your cheek and down to your shirt, pulling it up to expose your hardened buds. He bit his lower lip at the sight before groping them. You moaned and leaned into his touch.

"Fuck..." Billy whispered and lowered his head slowly towards your chest, once again making sure you were sound asleep so he could bite your right nipple very softly. The sensation was barely there but it was enough to make you whimper and clench around your fingers.

Billy continued teasing you with his mouth and eventually replaced your fingers with his. They reached deeper than yours and he was methodically stimulating your gspot. Slowly. Teasingly. Pleasurable torture in your now waking state.

"Mph... More," you moaned, half asleep. Billy fingered you faster and your tits started to bounce slightly.

The sight made Billy twitch in his pants and he wasn't going to last much longer without burying himself inside you.

He wondered if you knew it was him. If you were going to push him away at some point, but you did the opposite. Once you realized it was him. That random man that gave you a lift and was fixing your car moments ago. That delicious looking middle aged man. Hell, you lost it. The pornographic moan you released at the realization made him pull his fingers out of you and quickly unbuckle his belt, pull his jeans down and release his hard... Big... Thick... Oh Gods, you were so ready.

Billy didn't waste anymore time and slid his cock all the way in. All 7 inches felt like pure ecstasy. He held your legs over his shoulders before pounding your cunt. Neither of you cared about protection, a horrible decision but it made everything so much more exciting and fucked up.

"Fuck... Mm yes..." You moaned. You were still somewhat in a sleepy state and moaning incoherently. Billy absolutely loved it.

The man needed to feel the clench around his cock so he rubbed your clit in circular motions which heightened the pleasure and elicited sweet little moans for him.

The way you squeezed around his length made him thrust faster and get harder inside you. The feeling built the orgasm inside you slowly. It rose up your spine until you finally came around his thick cock, milking him seconds after. You gave cero fucks that he filled you up, you'd get a plan B the next day... Or not.

"Fuck, that was good..." Billy whispered and put his pants back on, not caring about after sex care or clean up.

"Bathroom's right outside to the left. I've got a job to finish," he said and looked at you from head to toe, feeling satisfied with the mess he made of you.

•

The day after you stayed in bed until late, the night was intense and you barely had energy to wake up at a decent hour. However, Billy stayed awake all night fucking around with your car to make it seem like it still wasn't working to keep you with him a while longer. He definitely wasn't done with you.

As he was working, his neighbor Stu Macher walked up to him,

"Victim?" he asked simply and Billy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with his forearm before looking at his friend,

"I don't know yet, I fucked them last night and" he finished his sentence with a soft whistle. Stu smirked and leaned against the shed's entrance,

"You gonna share a piece of that?" he asked and Billy looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Under my supervision."

[copinghex]

3:00 a.m in Birmingham | T.S

Summary: Tommy's wife has trouble sleeping and resorts to a method he disapproves of. As usual, he tries to solve this issue in his own ways.

A/N: I stopped frequently reposting old works because I thought "oh, I'm gonna work on new stuff now," and then I didn't. Anyway, this is one of my favorites

Tommy sighed in relief as he found her car parked in front of their old house at Watery Lane. He's been looking for her for hours and although her whereabouts weren't exactly mysterious, Tommy couldn't stop his hands from trembling with the possibility of her being gone.

The house was dark as usual, even if they had enough money for it, none of the Shelby's saw the point of paying for electricity for a house they barely went to, the only electric light came from the betting shop, since the business place was closed for the day, the house only counted with the light from streets that shined through the windows.

Thomas walked from each to each room looking for his wife until he finally got to their old shared bedroom. She was sitting on the bed staring at the wall, arms resting on her knees while her hands played with a bottle of something he couldn't identify.

"I thought you didn't like this bedroom," Tommy drawled, holding himself from scolding her, she might not be physically injured, but he knew she wouldn't run away if she was alright.

"I don't, it's too small,"

"Yeah, I don't like it either," Tommy agreed and sat by her side, "so we shouldn't be here,"

She peeked at him by the side of her eye and brought her hands near her chest, trying to hide the label of the bottle, "I needed a place to relax,"

"Oh, why didn't you try a spa?"

"Because in case you haven't noticed, it's three in the morning, we must be the only people awake in Birmingham," she humorlessly chuckled, "well, perhaps with exception of the night shift workers,"

"Right, but why here in all the places?"

"...It was our home for many years, I thought the feeling of familiarity would help me relax, help me sleep,"

Tommy arched his eyebrows at his wife's answer, she had problems sleeping for some time since the business started to grow and brought some consequences, but for the last few years he could swear she's been sleeping well, she's been even able to convince him to try to rest.

"You should see a doctor," he spoke softly with a bit of humour, usually, she was the one suggesting that.

"Nah, all doctors are children of rich people who don't actually care about people," she bitterly spat, it was an honest belief of her, however, there was another reason why she refused to see a doctor.

It was because she already did, during the busy weeks Tommy was barely home, she managed to sneak a doctor into the house and the diagnosis wasn't pleasant, stress was keeping her from a well-deserved night of sleep and the recommendation was to absent herself from any stressful situation. Well, being married to Thomas Shelby was very stressful.

She thought of taking a break, perhaps going on holiday with the children, every time Tommy got home though, he seemed to need her more, business related papers, loneliness, a stress relief, she filled all the gaps Tommy turned a blind eye through the day, because he was always sure she'd effortlessly fill them for him.

He needed her, he told her that many times, mostly not verbally, but the way his tired eyes bored into hers when he got home from work, the way his hands pulled her close to him and how he seemed lost when she didn't greet him at the door left no doubts, together with whiskey, opium and cigarettes, she kept the broken pieces of him tightly tied.

Hell, she knew the best she could do for herself was to leave him, Tommy was unstoppable, he had no limitations or limits, he'd never rest and he lived something near fine with it. She was different, she didn't mind doing paperwork or looking after the broken man she called husband, but she needed assurance things wouldn't fall apart at any moment, she needed to sleep knowing her empire wasn't built on unstable land and that was something Tommy couldn't offer.

Trying to solve this impasse, she bought sleeping pills, the strongest she could find. They worked well for the first two years, eventually she became immune to the effect, increasing the dose wasn't an option anymore either, it'd probably make her overdose instead of sleep.

Now, she was sitting near the cause of her insomnia in the old bedroom they shared, refusing to confess the true reason for her sleepless nights.

"What 's that?" Tommy suddenly asked, eyeing the bottle in her hands.

"Nothing,"

"Show me," he offered his hand for her to give him the flask.

"No,"

"What is it? A secret? Show me," he tried to take it from her hand and she pushed him away, "what the fuck are you hiding?"

"It's none of your business, did you come here only to bother me?" she complained.

"Worrying about you it's bothering now, eh? Give me that fucking thing," he forcefully took the bottle from her.

She pressed her lips together as Tommy read the label, "Did the doctor give them to you?"

"No,"

"Who did?"

"I bought them,"

"With whose prescription?"

"Nobody's, Tommy! I just take them to sleep,"

"These are fucking strong, did you take all of them?"

"Yeah,"

"How long have you been taking these things?" he frowned, insisting when she didn't answer, "Hm?"

"Two years,"

"Two fucking years? Does a doctor know about it?"

"What right do you have to scold me, Tom? Do you think I can't smell opium on you?"

"It's not the fucking same, these can be dangerous,"

"Oh, and yours are not?"

"For fuck's sake," he sighed and stood up, adopting a scolding posture, "why didn't you see a doctor?"

"I don't like doctors, Tommy,"

"Neither do I, but I'd see one if you asked, I know what I'm doing, it's what I always did, you got these pills out of nowhere and hid them from me,"

"I never hid them from you, if you got to bed a bit earlier you'd have seen me taking them!"

"Argh, sorry for not keeping an eye on you, you know I have so much free time," he said ironically, "why don't you go around saying how much of a bad husband I am?!"

"Well, I wouldn't be lying, would I?" she snapped, "I went to a doctor, Tommy! Do you wanna know what he told me?! To stay away from stressful things, but guess what? You stress me out, being by your side is stressful!"

Tommy gulped, assimilating the words his wife just told him, he was not by any means surprised by them, he knew it was all true, but he never expected her to throw them on his face like this.

"...you're with me by choice, if you're not happy, leave," his tone of voice was calm, but there was a dangerous challenge in it. After so long together, she doubted Tommy would accept a divorce, it was certain that when she died, the name Shelby would in her grave.

Besides, leaving Tommy was not her true wish, except for the lack of sleep, her life was comfortable, her child went to the best school, she wore the best clothes, drove the fastest cars and drank the best wine. Also, her love for Tommy was undeniable.

"I don't want to leave you," she mumbled, watching Tommy's tense expression change to relief, "but I need to sleep, I need to be alright so I can help you to be alright,"

"I don't want you to be with me for pity," he sat back down.

"It's not pity, I wouldn't be here if it was," she hesitated for a second before confessing, "I love you,"

He weakly smiled, still looking shaken by her previous harsh statement, Tommy always thought of himself as a not good enough husband, now she just crossed all the lines and defined him as a bad one.

"Tommy," she whispered, "nothing in this world would make me leave you, you won't get rid of me so easily,"

"Nothing?"

"Nothing, not even my sleep craving body,"

Tommy nodded, humorlessly chuckling, he stood up and took the car's keys from his pocket, "Let's go then,"

"I came with my own car,"

"I'll tell the driver to bring it home tomorrow, c'mon,"

As Tommy made the way to his car, she followed after him. It took a few minutes until they got on the road.

Tommy drove slowly, at this hour there was no one in the streets but them. The darkness of the night would have consumed the scenario if it wasn't for the car's headlights.

Despite the engine's noise, she relaxed, the car smelled of cigarettes and Tommy's cologne, it was a familiar scent and she felt safe sitting beside her husband. However, the unknown road Tommy was taking strokes an alert light in her head.

"This is not the way home," she warned.

"I know, I've thought of going somewhere else first," Tommy answered, secretly with no idea of where he was driving to, he only knew it wasn't home.

"Where?"

"You'll see when you get there,"

"I can't keep secrets from you but you can keep secrets from me?"

"It's not a secret, it's a surprise,"

"Tsk, I don't believe you set up a surprise at three in the morning,"

"Better believe,"

As the world got silent, she rested her head on his shoulder, allowing her eyes to close and her arms to wrap around his.

"You know, only this time I'll let you put your feet on the seat," Tommy spoke softly.

"Oh, such a gentleman," she took her heels off, "where are we going, Tom?" she peeked the road through her heavy eyelids.

"Right now I'm trying to find a rotary on the way home,"

"Where the fuck are we going anyway?"

"Just wait and see,"

"Go on, Tommy, quit the mystery,"

"Be patient, love."

She sighed in frustration and made herself even more comfortable in the car seat. The shakes caused by the bumpy road worked almost like motherly lulling.

Tommy's plan went exactly like he expected, his wife fell into deep slumber, this time without the need of any pills.

[fagatakonin]

Ok so. I had to do some tests for my neuro diagnosis class right and i have to write an opinion based off them so i did them on my uncle and he's lowkey on the path to alzheimer's 😭 i was genuinely surprised by this and have no heart to tell him and my aunt, i feel terrible for withholding it

Ifeel so terrible for other reasons than before

[iheartsparklingwater]

What your favourite season of house says about you

Season 1:

You like a medical procedural and there’s nothing wrong with that!

Often, you try and guess what the final diagnosis of the episode will be.

You watch house as a comfort show.

The un-self-aware charm of early 2000s television appeals to you.

I feel like you own a dvd player and/or an oversized blazer.

You watch 2002 interviews with Hugh Laurie on youtube.

Season 2:

“This is when the show really hits it stride”

Love an ethical argument, you’re the type of person who brings up the Trolley Problem in casual conversation.

You’d never say “I told you so,” but you’d think it.

You will defend Cameron with your whole chest (As you should)

LOVE clinic duty scenes.

The ducklings>

Love how the Stacy arc gives more context to what House was like before the infarction.

Meta girlies!

Season 3:

Camchase <3

You have indulged in livejournal and tv board posts from 2006.

You have a Tumblr tag called something like “difficult people I love.”

You have a complicated relationship with justice and probably don’t think Tritter was entirely wrong.

You believe that the depiction of House’s Vicodin addiction is the most nuanced and realistic in s3.

You psychoanalyse everyone in your life.

One day one room is a masterpiece.

Season 4:

You crave structural disruption.

New team > old team and you’ll die on this hill.

You’ve reblogged the “what is my necklace made of?” gifset more than once

Forever mourning the 8 episodes cut due to the writer’s strike

You think Kutner and Taub are more emotionally complex than they get credit for, and you're mad about what happens next.

Bawled your eyes out to House’s head/ Wilson’s heart.

You can write 3k words on the use of the bus as metaphor.

You are deeply loyal to underdog characters and niche side ships.

Justice for Amber.

Season 5:

You think season 5 is objectively the best season.

Thirteen is one of your favourite characters and you love her dynamic with House.

You would defend your favourite episode in a PowerPoint presentation and close with a quote that makes everyone cry.

The thought of hallucination Amber crosses your mind constantly.

Thinks that Birthmarks is very underrated.

Season 6:

“Broken 1&2 are the best episodes of television ever made”

You have a complicated relationship with hope.

You would watch an Alvie spinoff.

Dr Nolan>

You think the show should’ve ended at s6.

House with short hair is hot.

Season 7:

You have read the thunder mountain 7x01 pdf.

You vibe with Rachel Cuddy.

You have multiple theories about narrative sabotage and have used the phrase “narrative whiplash” in earnest.

THE ACTING IN AFTER HOURS DESERVES EVERY AWARD EVER MADE!!!!!!

We don’t talk about bombshells.

Possibly an editor? I feel like there’s a lot of s7 scene packs.

You believe fanfiction can fix what the writers ruined.

The bathtub scene.

Can't justify the car 'incident', and consequently miss Cuddy deeply in s8.

Season 8:

You’re a contrarian

Emotional truth can justify tonal inconsistency.

“The last 5 minutes were perfection”

You think the 8x01, twenty vicodin is overlooked.

You love Park. You defend Adams. You ship them if you’re feeling brave.

You feel excluded from the fandom

Love Chase (He has an entire episode named after him in s8!!)

You think House and Wilson’s relationship is the show’s real love story and this season finally acknowledged it.

[sturniololuvz]

Chris's finding out his daughter has some kinda of problem, like endometriosis or POTS

“Tilted”

Chris noticed something was off long before anyone else did.

At first, it was little things — you’d stand too fast and have to sit back down, or complain that your heart was racing even though you weren’t doing anything. You’d get pale, dizzy, breathless. Some mornings you couldn’t even get out of bed.

He thought maybe it was anxiety. Or a bad cold that wouldn’t go away.

But one afternoon, when he came home and found you collapsed on the floor of the hallway — eyes glassy, breathing fast, too lightheaded to speak — he knew something was really, really wrong.

The hospital was cold.

Chris sat at your bedside, jaw clenched and heart in his throat as the monitors beeped steadily beside you. You were barely awake, just whispering short answers when the nurses asked questions.

Eventually a doctor walked in. He spoke gently. Too gently.

They explained what it was — POTS. A nervous system disorder. Your heart and blood pressure didn’t regulate properly when you stood up. That’s why you were always dizzy, weak, nauseous. Why walking to the kitchen felt like running a marathon.

“It’s chronic,” the doctor said. “There’s no cure. But it can be managed.”

Chris just nodded.

Even though his hands were shaking.

⸻

Later, when they let you go home, Chris helped you into bed. He was quiet the whole way there.

You looked at him with wide, tired eyes. “Dad?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Chris’s chest cracked open. “Why the hell are you sorry?”

“I don’t want to be broken.”

He sat beside you slowly, swallowing the knot in his throat. “You’re not broken.”

You didn’t say anything. Just picked at your blanket.

Chris leaned in, brushing your hair back gently. “It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared too.”

Tears welled in your eyes. “What if I can’t do the stuff I used to?”

“Then we do new stuff,” he said, voice tight. “Together. You’re not doing this alone.”

A pause.

Then quietly, you whispered: “I just want to feel normal.”

Chris wrapped his arms around you, holding you tighter than he ever had.

“You are normal,” he said fiercely. “You’re just dealing with something hard. But I’m with you every step. Okay? Every dizzy moment. Every doctor’s appointment. Every time you need to sit on the bathroom floor because the world’s tilting sideways—I’ll be right there.”

You nodded into his chest, and he kissed the top of your head.

⸻

That night, he stayed in your room, sitting in a chair next to your bed, just in case you needed him.

And when your heart started racing again at 3 a.m., it was his hand you reached for first.

⸻

It wasn’t just your life that changed after the diagnosis.

It was Chris’s, too.

He started researching at night when you were asleep — scrolling through forums and medical sites, watching TikToks by other teens with POTS, trying to figure out what the hell a “compression sock” was and why everyone kept recommending salt tablets.

He learned the difference between “I’m tired” and “I’m crashing.”

Between “I’m dizzy” and “Everything is spinning and I can’t feel my legs.”

He started keeping water bottles in the car.

Electrolyte drinks in the fridge.

A sticky note on the mirror that said, “You can’t fight your body. You can only work with it.” — and he made you write it, so you’d believe it.

⸻

Your morning routine got longer.

Chris never used to wake up before you. Now he was up before the sun — filling a bottle with Liquid I.V., setting out your meds, warming your hoodie in the dryer so your body wouldn’t panic from temperature change.

He helped you sit up slowly. Feet over the side of the bed. Count to ten before standing.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

When it didn’t, Chris never got frustrated. He just crouched beside you on the floor and held your hand.

“We’ll wait it out,” he’d say. “It’ll pass. You’re doing amazing.”

⸻

School was the hardest.

You had to take breaks. Miss classes. Explain to teachers who didn’t understand why you couldn’t “just try harder.”

Chris started coming to your appointments with a notebook and pen, writing everything down like a soldier on a mission.

At your 504 plan meeting, when the counselor said, “Well, it’s not like she looks sick,” Chris’s jaw flexed — and he said, “If she needed a wheelchair, would you still say that?”

The room went silent. He never raised his voice. But everyone listened.

⸻

The bad days still came.

Sometimes you’d cry because you hated your body. Or because you felt like a burden. Or because you just wanted to run down the hallway without getting winded.

And every time, Chris reminded you:

“You’re not a burden. You’re just a fighter in a body that doesn’t always play fair.”

Sometimes he’d tell you about the first time he saw you walk — how proud he was. Or how brave he thought you were just for trying every single day.

⸻

One night, when your alarms had gone off twice, and you’d nearly passed out in the shower, Chris knocked on your door just to check in.

You were curled up under your heated blanket, clutching a stuffed animal you thought he hadn’t noticed you still kept.

“I’m tired of being sick,” you whispered.

Chris didn’t say anything right away. He just came over, tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and sat beside your bed.

“I know,” he said finally. “But I’m proud of you every single day. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

And for the first time in weeks, your heart rate finally slowed.

⸻

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

“Mom, we should get going,” you say as you check your bag.

Your mother sits at the table. It’s cluttered as always. You can see her inhaler amid the mess. Wait, there’s another one. You cross the kitchen, only two steps, and grab both inhalers. You feel the subtle difference between them.

You take both, putting the full one back in the medicine cabinet and the other in the disposal bin. The doctor said the inhalent would help with your mother’s dopamine levels, balances her out a little, but the new treatment only seems to be another symptom of her disease. She hates doing it, she hates all of it, but you can’t blame her for that.

“We can’t be late for the consultation. We’ll be waiting another six months,” you come back to the kitchen.

She looks at you as she wobbles slightly. The tremor is more prominent than before. Each day you notice it more. All the little things changing about her. She’s a bit slower, her words don’t come easy or always clearly, and her mood grows grimmer and grimmer. So does yours.

You grab your purse and the keys. You’ll clean up when you get home. It doesn’t take very long for living to pile up though. Especially when you’re the only one to keep it in order.

Your mother grips the table and stands up. Getting her dressed was a battle already won. Her posture is slightly crooked as she shuffles around the table, “I’m moving.”

You step back, waiting patiently for her to round the table. She grumbles. Your mother was never bright and bubbly but ever since her diagnosis, she’s lost any glimmer of warmth. It’s like she’s living in a fog, just slowly wading through.

You walk down the hall ahead of her and pick out your shoes from the rack. As you kneel to tie your sneakers, she leans on the wall and slides her feet into the orthotic flats. She’s not very old yet. Neither of you expected her to decline so quickly.

You stand and open the door. You back up though the screen door and hold it for her. Her steps get a bit smoother the more she moves around. The permanent scowl sinks into the lines of her face as she comes out onto the porch. You lock the door behind her as she grunts and leans on the railing, stamping down each step to the walkway.

You follow behind her. That’s another problem. The lawn. The old mower broke. You haven’t been able to replace it.

As you trail your mother to the car, she swats you away. Sometimes you try too much for her. You know she must feel helpless. You back up as she sits heavily in the passenger seat and your eyes skim around the neighbourhood. The white sign on the lawn next to yours catches your eye.

You remember the finely dressed woman, her very image on the sign, and how she grimaced at the weeds and grass. If she’s going to sell the property, the neighbours shouldn’t be living in a jungle. You heard her say as much over the phone as she paced back and forth on the porch.

You mother pulls the door shut but it doesn’t click. You give it an extra push to secure it and round the hood. You get in the car and turn the key, rolling down the windows as the early summer morning crowds the tight space. Your mother mutters and wipes her forehead with a shaky hand.

“Let’s just go,” she sneers, “waste of my time...” she bends her arm over the open window, her fingers quivering, “damn doctors said it enough. Nothing they can do. Charlatans.”

“Mom,” you chide gently, “the surgery could help. If you qualify--”

“I heard ya last night,” she snaps. “Just drive.”

You nod and snap your mouth shut. You shift into reverse and back out of the drive. You know better than to talk too much. Your mother never liked hearing anything she didn’t want to hear. Facts are just an attack on her.

You steer down the street slowly, following the curve of the suburban street. The green lawns and white picket fences are palatial at first glance. It’s a 1950s fever dream implanted in the twenty-first century.

Your house is the black stain on an otherwise pristine canvas. The HOA must curse your grandmother for her leaving a perfectly nice home to a pair of beatnicks. You don’t blame them. You’re the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit, leaving a gaping hole in the picture.

The radio crackles on and you wince. Your mother struggles to turn the knob and the volume pendulums up and down. You reach to help her and she smacks your hand, only softly as she has little strength behind it. You retract and grip the wheel, listening to buzzing struggle of her unsteady. You just hope the appointment goes well.

🏠

Your mother hasn’t said much since the appointment. That worries you. What should be good news is just another dark cloud over her.

She sits as she often does; half-reclined in the chair by the window, watching the neighbourhood just outside the pane. She’s just a resentful of the picture-perfect neighbours as she if of everything else. As she is of you.

You tidy the kitchen table as the unsaid dangles in the air. You know better than to bring it up. She barely acknowledged it when the doctor said it. She’s a good candidate for surgery but it isn’t a cure. It will help with the symptoms but not stop them altogether. It’s not good enough for her but it might just be her only hope of relief, even if temporary.

“Bring me a coke,” your mother calls through and you hear the hollow tin clatter of an empty can.

You bring the dirty dishes to the sink and set them beside it. You go to the fridge to grab a red branded can and let the door shut on its own. As you enter the living room, your mother sits forward, the recliner snapping forward with her weight. She leans on and elbow as she squints through the window and cranes over the armrest.

You pick up the old can and put the new one on the small table by the chair. She sits back and takes the Coke, trembling as she struggles to crack the tab. You know better than to help her. The curl in her lip warns you better.

“Someone’s looking at the place next door,” she says.

“Oh?” You move behind her chair and try to the next house. You can only really see the edge of the porch from here. You could open the side window but that would give more than a view of the siding and might be too obvious. “New neighbours.”

“Eh, if it sells. Could do better without these stuck-up prissy bitches running around measuring grass,” she growls of the Home Owners’ Association.

You nod. She’s right. You’ve had to deal with that nosy blonde too many times.

“We’ll see,” she mutters as she finally gets the can open and slurps. “Just hope it’s not another bitch.”

You cross your arms and step closer to the window. You sense movement just beyond your vision and the realtor in her pantsuit comes down the front steps of the neighbouring house. She turns back to face someone you can’t see and speaks to him. Their words are garbled by the barrier of window and wall.

The woman smiles and spins to strut down to the sidewalk. A man follows after, a slow stroll in his long legs. He turns to face the house again and puts his hands in his pockets as he looks up at the facade. His eyes narrow as he considers it.

His gray hair is streaked with remnants of its former blond. If it wasn’t for the colour of his locks, you might not have guessed his age. He’s tall and his shoulders are broad. He’s built finely for any era.

Your mother leans forward again, “heh, lookie there,” she slurs.

She leers through the window as you stare blankly out. A new neighbour just means another person to complain about the lawn; or another person for your mother to complain about. The man pivots on his sole and pauses, his gaze set in your direction. You don’t think he can see you, not with how the sun reflects off the square panes. He stalls for just a moment before he turns complete, striding up towards the realtor.

You back up and retreat toward the kitchen. You mother hums as she continues to snoop through the window. The recliner squeaks beneath her as she shifts in the seat.

“Bit old for a family man,” she tuts.

[santaasi]

cold opens

pairing: film director!james potter x actress!reader

summary: james casts you in his first student short. it's a rainy day. you show up in vintage denim and ruins the first take. james falls a little in love

warnings: slow burn, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 2.5k

a/n: new part of muse is up — yay! I’ve decided to post all the parts in timeline order, so this one’s season 1, episode 2 for you all

prev. episode // next episode

IT STARTS IN A GRAVEL LOT BEHIND AN ABANDONED TRAIN DEPOT, where rusted tracks vanish into the hush of rain and a sky swollen with thunder. The air tastes like metal, charged and waiting.

James is already there when you pull in, crouched low over a battered tripod. One hand shields the lens from the spit of drizzle; the other steadies the weight of a camera that looks like it’s seen better decades. His shirt clings to one side, half-untucked, a pencil tucked behind his ear like an afterthought. Notes scrawl wildly across the back of a bus ticket — ink smudged, rain-dappled, undeniably his.

He looks up at the sound of your car door slamming. And pauses.

You’re soaked to the knees. Vintage Levi’s dark with water, lace-up boots swallowed by mud. The blouse you thrifted last week — sheer and romantic in your mirror this morning — now clings to your skin like regret. You hadn’t dressed for a storm. You hadn’t dressed for James, either. And yet.

The actor playing opposite you offers a watery hello. You don’t answer. Can’t find it in you to pretend.

James jogs over, sheepish and warm-eyed. “Hey, I meant to text. Sorry about the–”

“ –rain?” you snap, sharp as broken glass. “Or the script? Or the total lack of shelter? Or maybe the fact that your scene partner looks like he wandered out of a public service announcement on tax fraud?”

James blinks. Then that maddening grin unfurls — slow, sunlit, like nothing’s ever truly that bad. “I was gonna say parking directions, but yeah. All of the above.”

You glare. He shrugs.

This is your first time working with him — James Potter, golden boy of the university’s film program. The kind of director people call promising in that reverent, premature way reserved for boys with good hair and better instincts. The kind with charm that curdles into legend before the footage even gets cut.

You said yes to his short film because you were desperate, not for attention, but for something. Nobody wanted to cast you anymore. Too sharp, too strange, too unwilling to giggle through someone else’s vision. Too difficult, they whispered, like it was a diagnosis. And James Potter — sun-drunk, art-house, a little arrogant — was the only one who didn’t flinch when you spoke. Maybe he liked the bite. Maybe he saw something worth the trouble.

It was supposed to be harmless. Niche enough to avoid scrutiny. Small enough not to matter.

Except now you’re here. And everything does matter. The sodden script pages curling like petals in your lap. The generator’s low growl rattling your spine. The boy with camera-callused hands and a smile too warm for the sky above you.

You drop into a folding chair, water squelching at the back of your knees. Wrung-out sleeves, muddy laces, hair sticking to your cheekbones. You feel like a drowned ghost of the person who left their apartment this morning.

James doesn’t hover — he knows better than to make you a problem he can solve. He flips through his notes, tilts the mic stand half a degree, then lowers beside the tripod. His fingers rest on the focus ring. A breath too long.

“Scene twelve,” he calls. Voice steady. “Rolling.”

You walk into the frame like it’s a battlefield. Rain stings your lashes. The actor delivers his line — flat, lifeless. Like he’s reading off a teleprompter two rooms away.

It was supposed to be the climax. The moment that cracked the whole film open.

And he gives you that?

“Are you kidding me?” The words snap out, brittle and blood-hot. “He’s just confessed to leaving his wife for me, and you respond like you’re ordering a latte?”

The actor stammers. You don’t wait for an answer. James doesn’t call cut.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, stepping out of frame, out of reach. “I came here to act, not babysit.”

The silence that follows feels louder than your voice. Someone shifts behind the bounce board. A cough. A held breath. You can hear the label sliding back onto your skin: difficult. Cold. One of those girls — all theory and stormclouds and unmet expectations.

You pull your jacket tighter, pacing, half-slick with rain and fury. You’re angry at the sky. At the script. At your soaked boots and the way your teeth chatter. At James Potter and his goddamn napkin shot list.

At yourself — worst of all — for caring. For hoping. For the way his stupid grin still hums behind your ribs like a song you don’t want to know the words to.

“Hey.”

You glance up.

James stands a few feet away, rain threading through his hair, clinging to the collar of his shirt. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. For once, there’s no camera between you. No excuse to pretend this is just about the film.

“That–” he begins, gesturing vaguely toward the emotional wreckage you left in your wake, “ –was perfect.”

You squint at him, unamused. “I wasn’t acting.”

“I know,” he says, like it’s sacred. “That’s why it was perfect.”

You should shut him down. Should spin on your heel, march to your car, and never go back. But instead–

You laugh.

It startles out of you, rough and involuntary, edged with disbelief. It tastes like rainwater and old anger and something frighteningly close to relief.

James laughs too, surprised by it. And for a beat, the world folds in, just the two of you suspended in the storm, a wire strung tight between your ribs and his.

“Reset!” he calls over his shoulder, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours.

You shake your head, exasperated. “This film better be worth it.”

He looks at you like it already is.

The next take is lightning. Every word slips sharp and gleaming from your mouth like broken glass turned art. You cry — effortless, full-bodied, not because the script demands it but because the ache inside you finally found somewhere to go. It spills from you like it belongs to the scene, but you know better. It’s yours. And James knows it too.

He doesn't speak. Doesn’t dare.

He watches you through the lens like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

The scene ends, but silence hangs. He forgets to call cut.

You stand there in the soft roar of rain, chest rising, lashes damp, your whole body lit from within by something raw and holy. Behind you, the boom operator wipes his eyes.

James lowers the camera slowly, reverent. His voice barely breaks the moment. “That’s the one.”

You nod once. A quiet offering. A white flag. A beginning.

Something tender and dangerous, still unnamed, but no longer avoidable.

You stay too long on set.

The crew has packed up. The actors vanished like breath on glass. Even the rain has given up, leaving behind a hushed, glistening quiet, as if the world is holding its breath. The sky hangs low, bruised and secretive. You know you should leave, your jacket’s still damp, your boots a graveyard of mud and gravel, but your body doesn’t listen.

So you hover at the edge. Pretending to scroll your phone, pretending not to watch James coil cables and hum under his breath like the silence doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just flicks a glance your way now and then, as if you’re part of the set dressing he hasn’t decided how to frame. Then, finally:

“You waiting for someone?”

You shake your head. Then — quieter than you mean to be, softer than he deserves — “I just… wanted to say I’m sorry.”

James pauses mid-knot. His fingers still on the cable, the tension in them mirrored in his shoulders. “Sorry?”

You nod, biting down hard on the word.

“For earlier. The yelling. The whole… storming off thing.” Your voice hitches, raw and reluctant. “I know I’m not easy. People always tell me that. And they’re not wrong.”

He doesn’t speak immediately. Just watches you, his brow knitting like he’s trying to decode a language written in rainwater and restraint. You feel suddenly, unbearably exposed. Like he’s seeing through your jacket, your bones, your carefully constructed armor. Then, quietly: “You wanna watch what I got?”

You blink. “What?”

“The footage. From today.” He lifts a hard drive, thumb tapping against it absently. “I haven’t reviewed it yet, but I think…” A beat. A half-shrug. Casual, but not really. “I think it’s good. And you’re in almost every frame.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Something about the way he says it — so matter-of-fact, so unsentimental — lands in your chest like a spark in dry grass.

You’re in almost every frame.

You should say something clever. Or dismissive. Or safe. Instead: “I mean… if you’ve got somewhere else to be–” he adds, suddenly unsure.

But you’re already shaking your head. “No,” you say, steadier now. “No, I’d like that.”

He takes you to a greasy little diner just off campus, the kind that time forgot — all flickering neon and jukebox ghosts. The windows sweat with condensation. The booths are cracked vinyl, patched with duct tape and memory. Someone’s carved a heart into the tabletop, initials long since faded.

You slide into the corner booth beside him. The laptop sits between you, still speckled with rain and fingerprints, battery limping at 23%. The screen casts a pale glow across his features, softening him. Making him look more like a dream than a director.

He doesn’t press play.

Just opens the folder: cold opens // raw takes. Rows of stills flicker by — thumbnails of you mid-scene, mouth open in fury or fear or something too honest to name. Your body, caught in half-motion. Your face, too close to real.

“You’re not difficult,” James says, eyes still on the screen.

You turn to him, startled.

“I know people say that about you,” he goes on, voice low and even. “Heard it before I ever met you. Cold. Intense. Difficult.” He tilts his head, mouth curving into something almost-smile. “And maybe that’s true. But I think they just don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t flinch.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just clicks a file.

Play.

There you are — rain-matted, gravel-wounded, your blouse clinging like regret. You’re mid-yell, voice raised, eyes alight with fury that doesn’t quite belong to the character. From here, it’s different. From here, it’s alive. You look like someone breaking open, not breaking down. There’s power in it. A reckless, radiant sort of power. Like if the world dared you to kneel, you’d laugh in its face.

“I didn’t direct that,” James says softly, gaze flicking sideways. “That’s all you.”

And you look at him.

Really look.

Not through the camera. Not through the shell you’ve built for rooms that underestimate you. But through the low diner light, with your sleeves still damp and your guard beginning, impossibly, to peel back.

This boy — James Potter — with stormlight in his eyes and calluses from cradling lenses like they hold holy things. This boy who’s sat through your silence, your fury, your fire, and didn’t once flinch.

You don’t say anything at first.

You just let the quiet stretch, a fragile thread catching on every flicker of neon, every breath between you.

Then, dryly: “So you’re telling me that screaming at your actor in the middle of a thunderstorm made your student film?”

He huffs a laugh. “What can I say? Genius strikes in hostile environments.”

You raise an eyebrow, your voice low and teasing. “Bet that’s what you tell all your temperamental actresses.”

James leans back, eyes still on you. “Only the brilliant ones.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth won’t stop tilting. You try to hide it behind your straw.

The laptop hums between you, warm and rain-smudged. He scrolls through the footage with careful hands. Like the frames might fall apart if touched too roughly. When your face appears again on-screen, soaked and luminous and furious, you glance over instinctively — not at yourself, but at him.

He’s watching the scene like it’s a secret he hasn’t been trusted with before. Like he’s still trying to figure out how you did it. Or how you are.

“You know,” he says, like he’s thinking out loud, “you’re not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” you say, crossing your arms. “Colder? Scarier? More likely to murder a sound guy with a boom pole?”

He smirks. “I was gonna say louder. But also, yes. Terrifying.”

You snort. “Charming.”

James looks at you again — really looks, the kind of gaze that pauses before it lands. “I mean it,” he says. “Everyone warned me you were...difficult. Too intense. Too much.”

“And yet here you are,” you say, faux-sweet, “trapped in a diner booth with me. What does that say about your judgment?”

He grins, big and unbothered. “That I have impeccable taste.”

You roll your eyes again, but softer this time. Easier. There’s something in your chest loosening — a knot you didn’t notice until it started to come undone.

Then, after a pause, more careful: “You really think it was good? The footage?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

He just clicks a clip, lets it play — your face filling the frame, soaked in stormlight and something fierce and unfiltered.

And when the scene ends, James says, “It wasn’t just good.”

A beat.

“You made it art.”

You blink. “Alright, filmmaker. Don’t start getting poetic on me.”

He shrugs. “Too late.”

There’s a new silence now, weightless but crackling, like the second right before a curtain rises. And then, just as you reach for the last of your milkshake, he says it:

“You’re my muse, you know.”

You nearly choke on the straw. “Excuse me?”

He grins, unrepentant. “For real. I’ve already written you into my next project. Autumn term. New script. More dialogue, more light. Less mud.”

You narrow your eyes, playing skeptical. “You sure you can handle me twice?”

James tilts his head, like he’s considering it. “Probably not. But I’m gonna try anyway.”

That gets him a look — flat, amused, half-flattered against your will. You shake your head and mutter, “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re impossible,” he says, quietly.

But there’s no accusation in it. No edge. Just something almost reverent.

You don’t reply right away. Just reach for a napkin, smear a rain-damp curl off your forehead, and watch yourself flicker once more across the screen — raw, unguarded, real.

Outside, the sky’s still heavy, but the rain’s long gone.

Inside, the diner glows warm and strange. James’s arm brushes yours when he leans forward to rewind a take. You don’t move away.

You sit like that, shoulder to shoulder, in the buzz of cheap neon and soft Elvis crooning from the jukebox, letting the moment spool out around you.

No declarations. No conclusions. Just this, this space that wasn’t here before.

Something beginning.

And when he looks at you again, with that quiet certainty only artists and fools have, you believe him.

Come autumn, you’ll say yes.

Because this time, it’s not desperation.

It’s choice.

It’s curiosity.

It’s the promise of something more.

thankx for reading <3

I’d appreciate any feedback, whether in the comments or my inbox. :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

masterlist // muse script

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° might not be the golden one

( yukimiya kenyu x reader )

♡ a/n — for my new series :)

♡ content — yukimiya kenyu x gn! reader, gn! reader, childhood best friends, no established relationship but reader and yukimiya are close, set in (maybe) future :) ( i have it where he's playing pro soccer, but still with Bastard München) , mention of yukimiya's condition, pushy! reader, mutual apologizes, idk if the team canonically knows abt yuki's condition so there's this

♡ synopsis — you'd sat beside yukimiya kenyu when he first got his diagnosis, too strong to cry in front of his mom, but not in front of you. maybe you'd never understand how it felt for him.

Yukimiya Kenyu had always been good at smiling. The kind of smile that could charm anyone, make people forget their worries for just a moment. You’d seen it countless times, growing up by his side—the way he’d laugh and joke with you, even when life wasn’t kind to him.

But you’d also seen through it.

You saw it in the way his fingers trembled when he thought no one was looking. The way his jaw tightened when the world’s weight felt too heavy.

You were waiting for him just outside the locker rooms when the Bastard München team filtered out. They were all smiles after a hard-earned victory, and Yukimiya was no exception, his charm cranked up to the usual setting for his teammates and fans. But you saw it—the stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hand as he waved to the crowd.

He was smiling, as always. But this smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yuki,” you called softly when he spotted you.

His smile brightened, but it felt rehearsed, practiced. “Hey. You didn’t have to wait so long.”

You ignored the pleasantries, giving him a once-over before saying, “How are you?”

He paused, then chuckled. “I’m good. Another win in the books, right?”

“Are you okay?” you asked, stepping closer.

“What? Why wouldn't I be-”

“You know you can't pretend everything’s fine when it’s not,” you cut in, crossing your arms. “I know you’re struggling, Yuki. You don’t have to keep this bottled up, especially not with me. And your teammates—”

“They don’t need to know,” he interrupted, his tone sharper than you’d expected.

“Why not? They care about you.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice strained.

“It could be if you’d just let them in,” you argued. “You’re making this harder on yourself.”

His jaw clenched, and when he turned to you, there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes. “You wouldn’t get it.”

The words stung, even though you knew he didn’t mean them. You'd been there for everything. You'd sat beside him when he first got his diagnosis, too strong to cry in front of his mom, but not in front of you.

But before you could respond, he shook his head and said, “This doesn’t involve you, alright? It’s my problem.”

Your lips parted to say something, but you bit back the words. Instead, you exhaled slowly and nodded. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Maybe you'd never understand how it felt for him.

The drive back to his place was silent, the tension between you palpable. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of Yukimiya shifting in his seat. You gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, your mind racing.

The last time you’d fought like this, you were fifteen. Back then, it had been about something trivial—Yukimiya refusing to help you study for a math test because he was too focused on soccer. You’d stormed off, he’d sulked, and it had all blown over with an apology and a shared snack.

But this was different. This was heavier.

When you pulled into the driveway, Yukimiya lingered in the car for a moment before stepping out. Neither of you said a word as you entered his apartment. He went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, while you hovered near the couch, unsure of how to break the silence.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Yuki,” you began, your voice softer now. He turned, glass in hand, and you continued, “You’re right. I don’t get it. I can’t possibly understand what it’s like for you. And I’m sorry if I pushed too hard.”

His expression softened instantly, the frustration from earlier replaced by something gentler—regret, maybe. He set the glass down on the counter and walked over to you.

“No,” he said quietly. “You were right. Hiding it isn’t helping anyone. Least of all me.”

The admission surprised you, and a small laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Well, this is different,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“What is?” he asked, his own lips quirking upward.

“Fighting with you,” you said, recalling the argument from years ago. “Last time, it was over math homework. Now it’s… this.”

Yukimiya laughed, a quiet, warm sound that eased the tension lingering between you. “Yeah, a bit of an upgrade, huh?”

You shook your head, stepping closer. “It’s not an upgrade. It’s just… life.”

He nodded, his smile fading into something more serious. “Thanks. For not giving up on me. Even when I’m an idiot.”

“Always,” you said softly, echoing the promise you’d made to him so many times before.

And for the first time that night, his smile—the real one—lit up his face.

Weeks later, you watched from the side as Yukimiya sat with his teammates in a press conference. His expression was calm, but you noticed the way his hands gripped the edge of the table, as if grounding himself.

When one of the reporters asked him about his condition, something he publicly announced a week after the two of you had that conversation, you held your breath. Yukimiya glanced your way, just for a moment, and you gave him the smallest nod of encouragement.

“I wasn’t sure if I should talk about this,” he began, his voice steady despite the nervousness you knew he felt. “But I realized that hiding it wasn’t helping anyone—not me, not my team, and not the people out there who might be struggling with this, too. I want to show everyone that, no matter what, you can achieve your dream.”

He took a deep breath, then shared his story with a grace and honesty that left you in awe. The boy you grew up with, the one who always tried to smile through the pain, was finally allowing himself to be vulnerable.

And as the reporters clapped, as his teammates clapped, you felt your heart swell with pride.

marry me yuki im begging

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