#here's to hoping nothing breaks in that time ^^

[heron-knight]

ACT II: PURGATORIO

the train was much emptier than it usually was when I rode it-- not that I was exactly surprised, as at the moment it was almost the middle of the day. the morning rush had come and gone and lunchtime would not be for another hour and a half, giving me a pleasant window of silence as I stood, staring out the window at the dark tunnel wall rushing by. I'd been standing far too long-- my joints were starting to ache and my circulation had never been great. still, sitting down had proved a bit uncomfortable with my tail tucked into the back of my jacket.

despite the fact that the season was by no means warm, it was still far too hot for the outfit I'd for some reason chosen to wear. the thick wool hat folded my ears down uncomfortably and it appeared that wearing a heavy jacket when you already have a fur coat is not the best idea, especially when inside. I chuckled slightly, then coughed in slight hope that that wasn't actually what my voice sounded like. no such luck. I'd called in sick without providing explanation, and it would be just the perfect bit of poetic irony if my unusual activities that day had resulted in me falling unconscious with heatstroke. I sighed. as far as sounds I could make go, that was the one that I felt the least disgust when I made.

there were, by my research, six different Walgreens that the bystander who had received the wizard's card yesterday could have been going to. I'd been to two. two trips, and it was already starting to wear on me. my legs hurt, my fur was soaked with sweat once more, and talking to two stores worth of employees had been much higher than my usual daily limit for interaction. still, I went on-- and I was reminded why I had to every time I saw my reflection in the window and had to do my best to to break down sobbing on the train. it felt wrong-- wrong in a way that would almost be better if I couldn't comprehend it but unfortunately, I could. I could see every part of me that I hated, and I knew I couldn't go back home until I could find the person who would do something about it. I tried to focus instead on how uncomfortably hot everything was.

I had stared at every piece of clothing I owned for almost five minutes that morning. my whole wardrobe, spread out across the floor and stacked neatly on my desk and bed for me to see with my new eyes and it disgusted me. it's hard to describe the pure contempt I felt as I looked even at the shirt I had worn the previous day. they didn't fit me anymore-- well, they did, but not in any way that mattered. everything was either too baggy or too tight, each shirt telling me that there was nothing for it to hide in its own unique and tortuous way. as such, I'd opted for the heaviest clothes I could find-- if they covered up even what parts I liked, then so be it. had that been a mistake? maybe. I'd never dealt with a curse before.

I lurched forward as the train screeched to a halt, its doors sliding open and depositing me onto a near-empty platform. I exited hastily and pulled my jacket tighter around me as I walked, trying not to make eye contact with what few commuters occupied the area. my eyes lingered momentarily on a rat, scampering across the cold concrete of the floor with a piece of who knows what its its mouth-- a second or so later, I continued up the stairs somewhat embarrassed at just how difficult it had been to tear my gaze from it.

"yeah, man, I got no clue what your talking about." the employee said. I recoiled slightly, then replied softly.

"do... do you know if--"

"what?"

"I said, does anyone here--"

"dude, speak up." I sighed, then responded at full volume feeling each word claw its way out of my throat like something slimy and many-legged.

"Does anyone here know anything about it? a card? from a wizard on the subway? was the person that got it someone that works here?"

the employee thought for a moment, then replied. "I could ask around. back in a second!" he said with a grin, then disappeared into some back room or another. I stumbled around a bit before finding a chair to collapse into.

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, sliding an earbud back into my ear for whatever hint of momentary distraction I could get and hitting shuffle on the first playlist I saw.

now that I know what I'm without

you can just leave me

breath into me and make me real

bring

me

to life

"FUCK!" I shouted, tearing the earbud out and tossing it aside, only realizing my mistake once it had rolled completely out of sight. gripping my face with my hands I willed myself not to start crying again. not here. not in the middle of this damn Walgreens. keep moving. keep moving forward. breathe because the alternative doesn't offer any chance for improvement. look ahead. move forward. don't wait. no more waiting anymore. good.

good girl.

that seemed to work. it always did. always something I could fall back on. the only thing I knew was true. the only fucking axiom this curse had to it. I repeated it to myself again and again until both parts of it stopped sounding like words, then a little bit more until finally, I heard a voice from in front of where I sat staring at the floor.

"Daryl said you were looking for this?" she was clearly an employee as well, but somehow, despite the obvious uniform, that was the second thing I noticed. it was her hair, I think-- that was what I saw first. it had a greenish tint to it much too faint but uniform to be any sort of dye but for some reason plenty noticeable. A dark purple card with gold lettering was held between two fingers of her outstretched hand, the words on it shimmering faintly in what little rays of light made it to where I sat from the distant windows. I glanced up at it for a moment, then my hand shot forward and snatched it with a speed that I hadn't thought myself capable of before. "..oh. I guess so. Its yours, then." she said, smiling slightly in a way that didn't feel condescending. "I've got no need for it, and I'm pretty sure that girl with the robes gave it to me by mistake. I'm glad you were able to find it." I scanned its contents fast enough that I had to read it a second time.

Iosefka the violet

Official wizard of the area from Cedar St to Lucien Allen Park

302 Haberdasher St, apartment #105

I leapt from my chair, stumbling slightly and scrambling to find sufficient purchase on the smooth tiles to sprint to the door. before I could, though, I heard her speak again.

"wait!" she shouted. as I turned, I saw her hand slightly reaching out as if contemplating whether to stop me or not. her hair caught the light in a way that made its slight hue more noticeable, as well as the way that it matched her eyes. "you... I mean, I can..." I stopped and turned fully, half-leaning against a shelf until her words stopped fumbling. "you've been enchanted, haven't you?" I flinched, staring down at myself as I asked if it was really that obvious.

"No! not at all-- that's not... she inhaled sharply, shaking her head from side to side for a moment before gesturing to her hair. "my nan was Soraline the Lime-- small-town enchantress from a while back, you wouldn't've heard of her. anyway, she had the third sight, and I got a bit of it. anyway, I-- I wanted to make sure you knew that the hard part's over." I looked at her sideways, feeling my ears twitch beneath my hat.

"what?"

"you can see the cage and you have the key-- that's the hard part. all you need to do now is move forward. good luck--" she was silent for a moment. "sorry, didn't catch your name. what is it?" I flinched as its syllables crawled into my consciousness. they felt sharp in my throat-- sharp and bitter in a way that overwhelmed my with a sudden fear at the idea that they would ever reach my lips. I froze-- staring blankly for a moment as I gripped the name that I hated and forced it back down. I could feel it, sitting in my throat. it tasted like a lie that I'd forced everyone to tell me without knowing it. I didn't want to do that to someone else-- to make them try to care about someone that never existed.

"I don't know." I coughed.

"then I hope you find one on your way there. Good luck, miss."

that last word sunk in like sunlight on my skin. for just a moment, I could feel my eyes light up like they had the night before-- before I'd gone to look in the mirror. one moment, and that was enough for what determination I had to ignite.

I ran to the door, squinting in the midday sun as I fumbled around in my many pockets for my phone and punched in the address. a two-hour walk from where I was--

If I was willing to follow the route.

cursing, I tore off my jacket and began to sprint, letting the wind in my face serve as a sufficient distraction for me to not think about looking down. no more waiting. I had somewhere to go now. I had a way forward. a way out of this cage. a way It could finally stop hurting and I could for once be alive. ahead, an enormous garage loomed between me and my shortcut. I didn't turn.

it was chilly inside-- the concrete soaking up what little bits of warmth found their way into the shade of the colossal structure. my fur kept me plenty warm as I dashed upward past the rows of parked cars, climbing higher and higher towards the light above. my legs were screaming at me to stop. to rest. to slow down at the very least-- but if my body was one that would betray me so agonizingly as to be one that was not my own, I felt disinclined to obey it. almost there. almost there. it hurt-- fuck, it hurt. my lungs felt like they were on fire as I ascended through who knows how many layers of that garage and I could feel myself continuing to overheat until I was on the verge of passing out. still, I kept moving forward because where the fuck else would I go? home? I had no home. no name. no self. if I couldn't find the person who could save me from that curse, what was even the point? as such, I kept climbing until finally after what could have been thirty seconds and could have been an hour, I could feel the open air against my face.

collapsing against the wall on the edge of the roof, I glanced at my phone again then out over the city. my destination was within view, but hours away in a city designed for cars instead of people. instead, I'd opted to do this. was it a stupid idea? yes. would it kill me? probably. would it be a risk worth taking? hell yes. trying my best to catch my breath, I pulled myself to my feet and let my eyes drift between each nearby building. too tall, too far down, too far away... perfect. on the other side of a five-foot alley, an office building sat just ten feet or so shorter than the garage I stood on. not far from that, another building seemed similarly ideal. I made my way over to the edge closest to it and stared down at the alley eight stories below me. landing on my feet wouldn't do me much good there, I thought to myself. if I failed, death was certain. if I succeeded, it would only be ten or so minutes to the place where I would finally become able to live.

with one final stretch I took a deep breath-- then a running start, and a leap of faith.

I landed softly enough that I almost didn't feel the impact, rolling slightly on the roof of the other building and springing to my feet just before realizing exactly how stupid what I had just done had been. oh well. nowhere to go but forward. that wasn't necessarily true. I could have gone down. it's just that I'd rather have taken the fastest route there than have given up now. with another sprint and a well-placed leap that I definitely would not have been capable of the day before, I continued to make my way across the skyline, feeling the wind in my hair with each jump as I flew from roof to roof. after just a few minutes, I returned once more to the ground floor right across the street from 302 Haberdasher exhausted but filled with more adrenaline than I'd ever been before. it was a small building as far as apartments in this part of the city went, only four or so floors. compared to the ten or more of every other building around it. it was nice, in a way-- pleasantly out of the way of the noise of the city despite its position so close to the center of it. I stared up at it momentarily as I crossed, then took a slow breath before stepping through the door.

PART II OF III

LINK TO VERSION WITH ALL PARTS: [HERE]

> be me

> bump into a drunk wizard on the subway and she curses me

> find out the next morning that I'm transforming into a catgirl

> track down the wizard and confront her about transforming me into a catgirl

> she is very confused because she definitely turned me into a catboy

> ask her why I feel like a girl then

> well fuck

[bueckersworld]

white mustang

synopsis: paige pulls up in her white mustang and invites you on a late-night drive, saying she’s been thinking about you. the two of you ride through the city in silence until you finally admit your feelings, breaking the promise you both made to keep things casual. your confession hangs heavy in the air, and paige, unsure and afraid, chooses to walk away — leaving you alone. days later, you run into her again by chance, and the tension between you reignites. you share a charged, intimate moment in the mustang, the same car that once drove you apart, and in the aftermath, paige chooses to stay — this time, ready to try for real.

warnings: angst, smut — mdni, dry humping (please bring ts back 🙏), fingering (r!receiving), desperate!paige, slight mean!paige

WORD COUNT: 2.9k info. masterlist. taglist.

the streetlights flicker on one by one as the sky bleeds into a dull purple. you’re sitting on the cracked curb, just watching the night settle around the quiet neighborhood. the air is thick and still, like the world’s holding its breath. you don’t know how long you’ve been here, but your thoughts are tangled up, twisting and pulling at something you’ve been trying to ignore.

the sound of a car engine pulls you out of your spiral—a low rumble that grows louder, then softer, until you see it. paige, in her white mustang, gliding down the street like she owns the night. she slows, pulls up beside you, and the window slides down with a smooth click.

“hey,” she says, voice calm but maybe a little nervous. “felt like driving. thought maybe you’d wanna come with.”

you don’t hesitate. something about the way she’s looking at you, like she’s been thinking about you too, pulls you in. you slide into the passenger seat, the familiar smell of leather and her perfume wrapping around you like a quiet comfort.

the engine hums to life, and the city blurs past in streaks of light and shadow. she doesn’t say much at first, just lets the car carry you both through the streets, windows down just enough for the night air to touch your skin.

“been thinking about you,” she finally admits, eyes on the road but voice soft like she’s sharing a secret.

your heart thuds hard, the words hanging between you heavier than the night. you swallow, then turn to look at her. “i’ve been thinking about you too.”

she glances over, surprise flickering across her face, but she doesn’t say anything more. instead, she takes a turn onto a quieter road, away from the glow of streetlights and the hum of the city.

you both sit there, the silence filling up with everything you want to say but don’t know how to say.

“i can’t keep pretending it’s nothing,” you finally whisper, voice shaking more than you’d like. “we said it was nothing. that it was easy. but it’s not. it’s always been more.”

paige’s eyes search yours, and you see that flicker of something—maybe fear, maybe hope. “you shouldn’t say that,” she breathes. “not when we both promised.”

“yeah, well,” you say, your voice breaking, “i’m done pretending.”

for a long moment, she doesn’t say a word. then she looks away, jaw tightening. “maybe some things are better left alone.”

the words hit harder than you expect. “so what now?”

she takes a breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “i think i need to leave you alone. for a while.”

your chest aches, and you don’t argue. the car becomes colder somehow, the white mustang no longer a refuge but a reminder of the distance growing between you.

when she pulls up to your place, you don’t say goodbye. the door shuts quietly, then the engine roars and she’s gone, leaving you alone with the weight of your confession.

days pass slow and hollow. you catch yourself reaching for your phone to call her, but you stop before you do. maybe some things aren’t ready to be fixed.

then one afternoon, you see her again. standing under the neon glow of a diner, rain slicking her hair, the white mustang parked nearby.

her eyes find yours immediately, and for a second, it feels like nothing’s changed.

“hey,” you say softly.

“hey,” she replies, a tentative smile tugging at her lips.

she steps closer, the space between you charged with all the things left unsaid. the rain starts to fall again, heavy and warm, and neither of you moves to go inside.

“why didn’t you call me?” you ask, voice cracking, barely holding together the storm in your chest.

she doesn’t answer. her eyes flicker down to your lips for a second, jaw clenched like she’s choking on everything she couldn’t say. then suddenly, she grabs your face and kisses you hard—like she’s angry, like she’s sorry, like kissing you is the only way she knows how to speak.

the rain is relentless now, soaking into your clothes, your hair, everything, but you don’t move. neither of you do. it doesn’t matter. not when she’s kissing you like she’s starving and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted.

your hands tangle in the fabric of her soaked shirt, pulling her closer, closer, until there’s no air between you. her teeth graze your bottom lip, her breath coming hot and ragged against your mouth.

then she spins you around and presses you against the side of her car, her grip rough, hands sliding down your sides with a kind of urgency that sends heat spiraling low in your stomach. she touches you like she’s memorizing the map of your body—like she’s terrified she’ll forget it if she stops.

your hands roam across her chest, down her torso, fingertips slipping under the hem of her shirt, skin to skin. your gasp catches between her lips when her hands trail down your waist and slide over your hips, slow and sure.

her fingers dip beneath the waistband of your shorts, teasing just along the edge of your underwear. she leans in close, lips ghosting over your jaw.

“you drive me crazy,” she whispers, her voice ragged, full of frustration and need. “i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

you part your legs just slightly, inviting her in without words, but when her knee slips between your thighs and presses against you, you can’t help but let out a soft moan.

your hips shift instinctively, grinding down against the pressure of her leg. “paige—” you breathe, but she cuts you off with another kiss—deeper this time, wetter, full of heat.

“just—shut up, okay?” she mutters against your mouth. “i didn’t mean what i said. i didn’t mean any of it. i can’t hide this anymore. i can’t keep fucking pretending like i don’t love you. like i don’t crave you every goddamn day.”

her voice cracks on the last part. it’s raw. real. and it undoes something in you.

you kiss her again—slower this time, but just as desperate. your hands move to the back of her neck, threading into her damp hair.

“don’t push me away again,” she whispers against your skin, her voice smaller now, almost a plea.

you rest your forehead against hers. “i’m not going anywhere.”

she kisses along your jaw, then down the slope of your neck, her lips soft and reverent, and your body arches into hers like instinct.

her hand slides back down, this time with purpose, fingers undoing the button of your shorts, then the zipper. you gasp when she slides her hand inside, brushing over your underwear, teasing you gently through the thin fabric.

your thighs tremble when she dips past them, fingers finally slipping under and finding you wet and aching. you whimper, head falling back against the car. her mouth follows you, kissing along the side of your throat, breathing you in.

“fuck, you’re soaked,” she murmurs. “and not just from the rain.”

her fingers glide through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open. she rubs lazy circles over your clit, drawing soft, breathless moans from your lips, your hips rocking into her touch.

then she slides two fingers inside, deep and smooth, curling them up just right. you cry out softly, your hand grabbing at her shirt, the other buried in her hair.

she watches you with hungry eyes, her breath caught in her throat. “wanted you for so long,” she whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then the hollow beneath your ear.

her fingers begin to move, a steady rhythm that pushes you higher, each stroke precise, like she knows your body better than you do.

your legs shake as she pins you against the mustang, the rain masking the quiet, needy sounds spilling from your lips.

“yeah, that’s it,” she growls, her voice gravelly, lips pressed to your ear. “give it to me. let me feel you fall apart.”

you’re close—too close—the knot in your stomach tightening with every thrust of her fingers. you press your hips into her hand, chasing it, needing it.

“c’mon, baby—come for me,” she breathes, her pace quickening just enough to push you over the edge. “please—i need you to.”

you moan her name, your whole body tensing before it releases, your climax crashing through you like a wave. she holds you through it, kissing you, whispering against your lips, grounding you in the middle of the rain and heat and everything you are to her.

she doesn’t pull away. she just stays there with you, forehead pressed to yours, fingers still inside you, her other hand holding the back of your neck.

“you’re mine,” she says quietly. “i’m done pretending you’re not.”

your breathing slows, your pulse still fluttering against your skin. paige’s hand gently slips away, but she doesn’t move far. instead, she wraps her arms around you, pulling you against her like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

the rain continues to fall, softer now, and you both just stand there—soaked, shaking, but finally still.

you bury your face in her neck, your fingers curling into the back of her shirt. for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest eases, replaced by something warmer. something whole.

“you meant it?” you whisper. “what you said?”

she nods slowly. “yeah. every word. i’m so tired of running from it.”

you pull back just enough to look into her eyes. “so don’t.”

her lips curve into a faint, wet smile. “i won’t.”

you both get into the mustang after a while, clothes dripping, hair stuck to your foreheads, laughter breaking through the silence when your soaked thighs stick to the leather seats. she reaches across the console, taking your hand again, lacing her fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and maybe it is. maybe it always was.

because tonight, the mustang didn’t drive you apart.

tonight, it brought you back.

© bueckersworld

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ um, hi. i know this was supposed to be posted a while ago, but yk. shit happens, and a lot of it did. but i’m back, hopefully for awhile.. 😭😭 lmao

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold @lol-12n @sayurireidotcom @slt4kavanagh @kl0verk @agnesblight @scarlett177 @syraxsbigfanfr @youmeandjennessey @asapeveryday @avvwritesstufff @rand0mmmgg

[444eggnog]

Quiet Doesn't Mean I Don't Care

✍︎: wrote this short au while stuck in traffic on the way to uni, blame the gridlock and mad by ne-yo for the inspiration. hope you enjoy the mess and the softness that follows! ♡

content: fighting (slight angst), hurt, soft, and comfort

pairing: soft bf Oscar x overstimulated gf

wc: 492

It wasn’t the sauce.

It was everything before that; the constant static in her head, the quiet ticking of time running out before the next season, the way Oscar always seemed fine even when she wasn’t.

He handed her the takeout bag with a soft smile, like always.

“They didn’t have garlic aioli. I got spicy mayo instead, hope that’s okay.”

It wasn’t. Not today.

She turned to face him, blinking hard. “You always do that.”

He paused, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Act like it’s fine. Like none of this matters.”

Oscar set the bag down gently. “It’s just a sauce, love. I can run back and get the right one if it really bothers you.”

“That’s the problem, Oscar!” Her voice broke, loud in the quiet kitchen. “You never get upset. You never fight for anything. You just… go get the right sauce. You say sorry and move on. Do you even care?”

He stood still, expression unreadable, still so maddeningly calm.

“Of course I care.”

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” Her chest rose and fell, her eyes teary now. “Why don’t you ever get mad?”

Oscar didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the floor like the words were there, hiding between the grout.

Then, softly, “I don’t like yelling. I don’t like raising my voice. I thought that was a good thing.”

“It is,” she whispered, defeated. “But sometimes I feel like I’m the only one in this.”

She turned away.

“Maybe you should leave for a bit.”

Oscar didn't move.

“Oscar.”

Still, nothing.

When she finally looked back, his eyes were red, lashes wet.

And her stomach dropped.

Because Oscar never cried.

He rubbed at his jaw, looking anywhere but her. “You think I don’t care because I don’t yell?” he said, voice cracking. “You think I don’t love you because I don’t break things or storm out?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

She stepped closer, but he shook his head gently.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Before you, I didn’t have… experience. Not with this. I’m not good at showing things the way you need me to. But I try.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I get the wrong sauce. I mess up. But I try. And I will do better.”

He looked up at her finally.

“Just don’t push me away. Please.”

Silence stretched, thick with hurt and love.

She reached for his hand, not to pull him closer, but to keep him there, anchored.

“I don’t need perfect,” she said quietly. “I just need to know you’re here.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving hers.

“I’m here. Even when I don’t know what to say. Even when I get it wrong. I’m still here.”

And for the first time in days, she believed it.

They didn’t fix everything that afternoon.

But they didn’t go to bed angry.

And that was enough for now.

[wendichester]

can I request reader x soulless!sam, like they were dating before he lost his soul (and in looooovvvve<3) and she was so happy he was back but missed how he used to be, like he now openly flirts with literally everyone and he doesn’t care about her at all and it hurts her, maybe he snaps at her or he sleeps with some random girl (the hippie chick, some waitress) and she finds out or something else?

love you 💋

-💌

⋆˚꩜｡ half a heart doesn't beat right,

summary. sam lost his soul and with it, you lost him.

pairing. soulless!sam winchester x reader genre. angst

wordcount. 579

notes / warnings. complaints are not accepted. i am just completing the request 🛑 // heartbreak & emotional neglect, depiction of toxic relationship dynamics, implied infidelity, reader being dismissed/invalidated

You waited for him. Through the nights when he didn't call, through the rumors and whispers, through Dean's eyes when he couldn't look at you. Through the clawing hope that he’d still walk back into your arms like nothing ever changed.

And then he did.

Sort of.

Sam's taller, colder. The weight of him feels different, even when he’s standing right next to you. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—hell, half the time it's not even his smile. It's a stranger's. Plastic. Crooked in a way that makes your stomach turn, but you still chase it like you’re chasing something holy.

You tell yourself he’s just adjusting.

That it’s normal. That he just needs time. That the soul, or lack of one, doesn't erase what you had.

But it does.

It has.

It starts small. A hand on a waitress’s waist. A wink at the blonde in a crop top who asks about local motel recommendations.

“I’m right here,” you whisper once, fingers brushing his arm.

He doesn’t even look at you.

“You’re not blind, are you?” he says without blinking, eyes still locked on the girl behind the counter. “She’s hot.”

The first time he snaps, it’s because you ask him if he’s okay. (You shouldn't have. You knew better. You keep doing that—looking for Sam inside him.)

“I’m fine,” he says flatly.

You press, too soft. Too loving.

“Sam—”

“I said I’m fine,” he growls. “Jesus. You always do this. You cling.”

The word hits like a slap. You flinch before you can help it, and his eyes flick over you like you're a fly on the wall. Nothing more.

You catch him in the parking lot of some dive bar in Nebraska. She's got long legs and a hemp necklace and her laugh sounds like wind chimes. The kind of girl you would’ve called sweet, once.

He’s leaning against the hood of the Impala, her hand under his shirt, mouth on his neck.

He sees you.

And doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even blink.

Later, in the motel room—your motel room—he shows up like nothing happened. Like he didn't spend the last thirty minutes letting someone else kiss parts of him that you haven’t touched in weeks.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Still dressed. Still shaking.

“I saw you,” you whisper.

“So?” he says, kicking off his boots. “She wanted to. I didn’t stop her.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t start,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not a big deal. You’re making it a big deal.”

“I love you, Sam.”

“You loved a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore,” he says, voice flat. “That guy? He died in that cage. You don’t get to hold me to his promises.”

You cry in the bathroom later, silently, while the shower runs to drown out the sound. He’s already asleep on the bed. Or pretending to be. Either way, he doesn’t come looking.

You wonder if he ever will again.

And the worst part?

You still wait.

Every goddamn day, you wake up hoping he’ll feel something. Anything. That he’ll remember the way he used to look at you. The way he said your name like it was something to believe in. The way he held you after hunts with trembling hands like he was scared to lose you.

But he’s not scared anymore.

He’s nothing.

And you’re still here.

Waiting for a man who doesn’t even flinch when he breaks your heart.

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[dixonsdarkelf]

This was such a fucking hot read 🥵

"Looks like we're in here for the time," Daryl said, walking over to a window and looking out through a gap. "They ain't goin' anywhere anytime soon."

-with sarcasm- Oh no...whatever will I do...stuck with Daryl somewhere overnight...oh no...🤭

He glanced over at you, his eyes not giving away anything. "Just stay outta the damn way."

Awfully rude to someone who's gonna be doing you a favor here soon 🙄

You didn't reply; instead, you watched him, noticing the way his muscles moved under his shirt and the way his eyes darted around, constantly on alert. It was almost hypnotic—this man who lived on the edge of survival, so strong yet so guarded.

Oh baby, they’re hypnotic indeed…

As the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but glance at Daryl’s stomach, where his shirt had risen slightly when he sat down. Your eyes were drawn to the trail of hair that led from his belly button downwards, something you couldn’t ignore, and the more you tried to focus on something else, the more your gaze kept drifting back to him. Daryl shifted again, his eyes catching yours. "Got a problem or somethin'?"

-clears throat- Umm, no. Definitely no problems here, sir 😳

You didn't respond. You went down to your knees in front of him, your eyes locked on his and your fingers brushing against the skin of his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn't push you away. Instead, he watched you with curiosity.

Oooh Reader is so bold I love that.

"Ya keep makin' me harder," he said, his voice breaking. 

That would be the goal, babe 🤭

Daryl groaned loudly, his body arching due to the ruined orgasm. "Fuck, don't stop," he pleaded, his hands gripping your hair tighter. "I'm so fuckin' close."

Fuck that's hot 🥵

His moans grew louder as you finally gave in to him, your tongue swirling around his cock like a snake, leaving nothing untouched. Daryl gripped your hair tighter, and his thrusts grew more insistent, pushing you further on his cock as you gagged on him, and you took him deeper still while you could feel his balls tightening and the base of his shaft tensing.

Ho-ly Je-sus fucki-ing Ch-rist 🤯🤯🤯

Brushing the dust off your clothes when you got up as well, you turned to Daryl with a little bit of a spark in your eyes. "By the way, Daryl, I hope this check-up was thorough enough for you." He looked back at you with a confused expression on his face. "This check-up? What are ya talkin' about?" He asked, taking a step back from the window. You smirked as you got closer again, both your hands running over his belly one more time. "Well, considering how things went down, I think we both should consider this our routine maintenance from now on, don't you think?"

I, too, am looking forward to the next one 😉

Incredible, amazing, hot, and such a fun read. Thank you for writing this 🖤

𝐂𝐥𝛐𝐬𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Trapped overnight by a horde of walkers during a supply run, you and Daryl Dixon find yourselves in close quarters with nothing but time on your hands. And the problem that you can't keep your hands to yourself.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Oral Sex ⋮ Belly Kink

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 2.664 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

"Keep ya eyes open," Daryl grunted and kept walking. His crossbow hung over his shoulder as his eyes looked left and right in search of any danger. He wasn't much for words, more action than unnecessary chit-chat, but you didn't complain. 

Today's task had been simple: Scavenge for as many supplies as you could until night began to fall, and then get back to the safety of the group. And that's exactly what you did, with your supply run partner being once again: Daryl Dixon.

You only nodded, holding your own weapon tightly. For all his rough exterior, you trusted him with your life. Over the last months, you've seen Daryl in action a lot of times already; to your eyes, he seemed to be one of the best survivors among the group. But tonight felt a bit off. It didn't feel like any other supply run; you were uncomfortable, and you just couldn't shake the feeling that something was likely to go wrong.

As the last rays of daylight finally vanished, sudden growls came from out of nowhere. You and Daryl immediately stopped dead in your tracks, your hearts racing in your chest as you realized that a small horde of walkers approached. Still, there were too many to take on, and running was definitely out of line. You had to find shelter, and fast.

"This way," Daryl whispered, tugging at your arm to lead you toward a building. He pushed open the door, and both of you slipped inside, shutting it as quietly as you could behind you. The room was dark and full of dust and the familiar smell of decay.

"Looks like we're in here for the time," Daryl said, walking over to a window and looking out through a gap. "They ain't goin' anywhere anytime soon."

You sighed, trying to steady your breathing. The reality of the situation was hitting you. Being stuck in this tiny, dark room with Daryl Dixon—with a horde of the undead outside—was just what you needed. 

Daryl, meanwhile, turned away from the window and explored the room further, but then he suddenly stopped and faced you. "Gonna need to check for scratches," he said, leaving very little room in his tone for argument. "Help me with my shirt."

"Okay, I guess..." You stepped closer, your hands shaking slightly as you reached for the hem of his shirt before you lifted it slowly to reveal his stomach. His skin was rough and scarred from the years of survival, but to you, it was mesmerizing.

"See anythin' on my back?" He asked, his eyes boring into yours.

You shook your head, trying to focus. "No, you're... definitely clear."

"Thanks," he said gruffly, pulling his shirt back down. His fingers brushed against your hand as he did, and for a brief moment, you both froze, but the sudden sound of a distant groan made Daryl’s eyes snap back to the window. "Damn it," he mumbled, annoyed. "We should make sure this place is safe."

You followed him as he began to inspect the room, moving from one corner to another. "You need any help?" You asked, trying to keep the stutter out of your voice.

He glanced over at you, his eyes not giving away anything. "Just stay outta the damn way."

You took a step back, feeling a bit disappointed. There was something almost painful about the way he kept you at arm’s length, like a barrier you could never cross. Yet, it only intensified your need to break through his walls.

He still hadn't found anything, so you turned your attention to an old armchair in the corner of the room. You walk over to it, brushing off some of the dust, thinking it might be a good place to take a seat and wait out the night. But in your approach, you had knocked over a few empty glass bottles, which shattered on the floor.

"Be careful, woman," he snapped at you. "Ya wanna attract more of 'em and get us killed?"

You immediately apologized and bent over to pick up the pieces, your face blushing with embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to."

Soon enough, he was done checking out the room, and he sat down in the armchair that you cleaned off. "Looks like we're stuck here for the night," he said, though not to you in particular.

Meanwhile, you sat down on the floor across from him, trying to get comfortable. Daryl's eyes looked at you, though he didn't really manage to hide behind his usual stoic expression. "Ya cold or somethin'?"

You shook your head. "No, I'm okay. Don't worry."

He nodded, and for a moment, you thought the conversation might end there. But then he shifted around in the chair, as if uncomfortable with the silence. "Ya’ve been quiet," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Usually ya've got somethin' to say."

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "Just… thinking, I guess."

"Thinkin' 'bout what?" He asked, still looking at you.

You shrugged, trying to seem casual. "Everything. How things have changed since all of this started."

Daryl grunted, his eyes returning to the window. "Yeah, things've changed alright. Ain't much left in the world."

You didn't reply; instead, you watched him, noticing the way his muscles moved under his shirt and the way his eyes darted around, constantly on alert. It was almost hypnotic—this man who lived on the edge of survival, so strong yet so guarded.

As the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but glance at Daryl’s stomach, where his shirt had risen slightly when he sat down. Your eyes were drawn to the trail of hair that led from his belly button downwards, something you couldn’t ignore, and the more you tried to focus on something else, the more your gaze kept drifting back to him.

Daryl shifted again, his eyes catching yours. "Got a problem or somethin'?"

You looked away quickly, feeling your heart race. "Nope."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, ya can't just sit there starin' at me like that."

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

He sighed, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright. What is it ya wanna say?"

You fidgeted around, trying to find the right words. "I just… I guess I'm curious about you. About who you are when you’re not out fighting walkers or scavenging for supplies."

Daryl stared at you, his eyes darkening slightly. "And maybe I don't see the point in talkin' 'bout that."

You shifted on the floor, your movements restless. "Maybe we could make this night less pointless."

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. "What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

You hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I mean, we could talk about something else. Anything, really."

He studied you for a long moment, his expression guarded. Then, unexpectedly, he broke the silence. "Alright, fine. What do ya wanna know?"

You nodded. "What about before all this? What did you do?"

He seemed to ponder the question before answering. "Didn’t do much beyond huntin'."

You smiled faintly, lost in thought. "Sounds like a simpler life."

"Simple don't mean easy," he answered back quickly, looking away again.

Without even thinking, you closed the distance between the two of you, your heart racing in your chest and your hands shaking just a little bit as you held them out to him. Why? You didn't really know it yourself. You just did.

"What're ya playin' at?" He growled and narrowed his eyes.

You didn't respond. You went down to your knees in front of him, your eyes locked on his and your fingers brushing against the skin of his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn't push you away. Instead, he watched you with curiosity.

"You like this?" You asked, your whisper barely audible over the far-off moans of the walkers outside.

Daryl's jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. "What're ya tryin' to prove?"

You ignored his question, pressing your lips to his stomach in a matter of seconds. His skin was warm and slightly wet with salty sweat.

"Stop," he growled, but without conviction.

But you couldn't. You did not stop and continued to kiss and lick his stomach while your hands searched for every inch of his body. It was in the way his muscles twitched at your touch, the way his breath hitched—that really turned you on.

"You want this," you whispered, more a statement than a question.

Daryl's eyes blinked fast—part need, part hesitation. He was already at the edge, his breathing ragged, his eyes on you as if he willed himself to fight but failed.

"Yeah," he mumbled, his voice shaking. "Goddamn it… I want it."

That was all the motivation you needed. You reached out and placed your hand on Daryl's thigh, feeling him tense up slightly, but he still didn't pull away.

"I want to suck your cock," you whispered, your hand sliding up his thigh, closer to the bulge in his pants. As you reached for his belt, your fingers fumbling with the buckle, he helped you with shaking hands.

You smiled up at him, your fingers soon enough wrapped around the base of his cock, and slowly you leaned forward and pressed your lips to slide over the tip.

You teased him with soft, slow kisses, using just the very tip of your tongue to outline his head. His moans were very low and almost barely audible, but they fueled your lust all the same when you licked off the pre-cum.

"Fuck!" Daryl gasped, his hands gripping the sides of the chair. "Just get on with it."

Your mouth opened wide, and you took him in almost immediately, starting with just the head and letting it slide slowly past your lips. It was almost too much, that feeling of his cock in your mouth, and so you pulled back a bit, swirling your tongue around the head before trying to take him in further.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Daryl mumbled, his eyes closed, as he fought to hold on to some sort of control.

Your hand didn't stop stroking the part of his shaft that wasn't in your mouth, moving in rhythm with your lips and your tongue's movements.

Daryl's hips bucked involuntarily with short thrusts, and every time he pushed forward, you took him deeper, feeling your throat expand around him.

"Ya keep makin' me harder," he said, his voice breaking. 

"Good. I want you to be," you grinned around him, and without hesitation, you dove back down on him, taking him in as deep as you could.

"Fuck, keep goin'," he urged. "Ya gonna make me lose it."

You were more than happy to obey, and you quickened the pace of your movements, your mouth sliding up and down his cock. His hands were gripping your hair now, guiding you and pushing you to take him even deeper. His groans were getting louder, sounding more desperate, and you could tell he was close already.

"Jesus, I'm gonna cum," he moaned, his voice trembling. "Gonna blow my load."

You smirked around his cock, but you certainly didn't mean to let him come just yet. Drawing back a bit, you let your tongue slide along the underside of his cock before swirling around the sensitive skin just below its head.

Daryl groaned loudly, his body arching due to the ruined orgasm. "Fuck, don't stop," he pleaded, his hands gripping your hair tighter. "I'm so fuckin' close."

At those words, your lips parted slightly, teasingly, allowing a strand of spit to connect you to his cock before you leaned forward again, but not taking him fully into your mouth.

"Goddamn it," Daryl groaned, his hips bucking reflexively. "Don't play 'round."

But you continued teasing him, your tongue playing with the pre-cum, letting it gather in your mouth before you let it drip back onto his cock.

"Tease me like this," he gasped, "and I'm gonna go fuckin' crazy."

"You want more?" you asked. "You want me to make you come?"

Daryl nodded desperately, his eyes half-closed. "Yes, fuck yes."

Instead of giving him what he wanted, you pulled away once again and began to kiss and lick his cock from the base up, sliding your tongue around his shaft and softly nibbling on it as you moved slowly back up, paying careful attention to every inch of his throbbing cock.

"Shit," Daryl moaned, his hands gripping your hair harder. "Fuck, stop teasin' me."

His moans grew louder as you finally gave in to him, your tongue swirling around his cock like a snake, leaving nothing untouched. Daryl gripped your hair tighter, and his thrusts grew more insistent, pushing you further on his cock as you gagged on him, and you took him deeper still while you could feel his balls tightening and the base of his shaft tensing.

"I'm gonna come," he warns, but you don't stop. You want to taste him and feel him explode in your mouth. "Oh, fuck," he cried out again, his grip on your hair tightening as he cursed. "I'm gonna fuckin' come!"

You sucked hard and long, your tongue twisting around the ridge of his cock, teasing the sensitive spot beneath. With every suck, you could feel the pulsating veins in his shaft, and finally, Daryl came. His cock throbbed and pulsed in your mouth as he shot thick ropes of cum, filling your mouth with the salty, bitter taste of it.

You pulled off of him with a smirk, having swallowed the last of Daryl's cum, your lips glistening with the remaining drops before you wiped it off with the back of your hand.

"You okay?" You asked as you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his stomach.

Daryl looked at you, a half-smile on his face as he met your gaze. "Yeah, I'm good."

You leaned in closer, letting your fingers explore the warm, sweaty skin of his belly. "So," you said, your voice playful, "since we're still trapped here, do you want to know what got us into this mess?"

Daryl's eyebrow arched upward in confusion. "What do ya mean?"

You pressed your lips lightly against his belly. "I was just thinking about how all this started. It was your belly that got me going in the first place."

Daryl's eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh, so that's why ya were starin', huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Your belly's kind of a big deal to me, but I can't really explain," you grinned up at him.

He smirked back in amusement. "Fine, if ya don't wanna."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "No need to explain. Only appreciating the view."

"Well, don't get too distracted. We've still got loads of shit to do," he answered, getting up from the chair to prepare to take a quick look outside the window to see how many walkers are still outside and roaming around.

Brushing the dust off your clothes when you got up as well, you turned to Daryl with a little bit of a spark in your eyes. "By the way, Daryl, I hope this check-up was thorough enough for you."

He looked back at you with a confused expression on his face. "This check-up? What are ya talkin' about?" He asked, taking a step back from the window.

You smirked as you got closer again, both your hands running over his belly one more time. "Well, considering how things went down, I think we both should consider this our routine maintenance from now on, don't you think?"

Daryl's eyes widened for a second before he suddenly let out a small laugh. "A routine maintenance, huh? Alright. But next time, maybe we'll save the check-ups for a safer time. Now, get ya ass up and follow me."

"Deal. But I gotta say, I'm looking forward to the next routine check-up already," you laughed, following him to the door and closing it slowly behind you.

[kdh-tally]

Rumi x Jinu

Prompt : Jinu isn't supposed to be alive, but he is....

Authors Note : I actually love them so much. Like so much. Do the children of divorce Jinu's pets, have names? Does anyone know?

Rumi found herself gazing over the city. A bittersweet smile glossed over her lips as she saw the glow of the Golden Honmoon reaching farther than her eyes could see. 

It had been a few weeks since she had gotten comfortable with showing her patterns. A few weeks since the hunters had successfully protected the overworld from Gwa-mi and his demons. While the remaining four members of the Saja Boys seemed to have stayed behind in the overworld, the majority of their powers had seemed to fade. Besides, they actually seemed to enjoy the idol life, except for their missing leader.

Jinu. Rumi could remember the last time she saw him. He had willingly sacrificed himself for her. For everyone. He gave her his soul. Her hands moved to lay above her heart, where she always believed his soul rested.

She sniffled, wiping away a stray tear. How dare he be so selfless?

She stumbled back in shock at sudden pressure on her leg. Looking down, she was met with wide colourful eyes. Her frown softened into a smile as she knelt down to pet the tiger, the six-eyed bird hovering above his head.

They were all she had left of him.

“They seem to like you more than me”

Rumi froze. There was only one person she knew with such a melodic voice. She didn’t look away from the tiger, not wanting to get her hopes up. What if this was a dream? She didn’t think she could handle it.

She knew she couldn’t handle it. The tears were pushing against her eyes, pleading to fall. The strikingly blue tiger nuzzled against her forehead, almost encouragingly. She took in a breath and stood up and dusted off her pajamas. 

“Still wearing those pajamas, hm?” 

“There is nothing wrong with my pajamas-” her eyes flitted up as she responded. She met his eyes. No one said a word. The golden glow of the Honmoon waves seemed to sparkle brighter.

“Rumi…”

She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” she began to speak. Every single time she’d dreamt of this moment, he would always disappear before she got an answer. She hoped this time would be different. “Are you real?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly. 

She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her heart beating. She didn’t think she could handle this being a dream, not when it felt so real. 

She gasped as strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a tight hug. She couldn’t help but break down. “Please tell me you’re real,” she whimpered into his chest. 

“I’m real Rumi. I’m here and I won’t be going anywhere,” he spoke with such certainty that she was starting to believe him.

The two now lay on the roof of some high building. Rumi’s head rested on his shoulder while he put his arm around her. Jinu wasn’t sure how long it had been since he ‘died’. All he knew was that he was transported into some white room and was left to wonder about his whole life.

Most of that was just wondering about Rumi. His life only seemed to start after he met her. 

“How is this possible?” the purple haired girl muttered as she gripped tightly onto his hand. She needed to ensure he was real, to be completely sure that he was right there.

“I don’t know, and I really don’t care.” He nuzzled against her head, reveling in all the affection she was willing to display. His arm traced over the patterns that decorated her arm. “They’re beautiful, you know?”

She felt her face heat up quickly before pushing him away and standing up. “T-thank you,” she muttered, trying to sound cool. He only smiled up at her, eyes full of awe and amusement.

“What’s with that smug face?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“What smug face?”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.” She turned away, cheeks burning, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her true feelings.

“I saw that~” he teased gently.

Maybe he should’ve stayed wherever he was. But then again, she would’ve missed him way too much. And let’s be honest. He couldn’t live without her anyway.

Wait… How were they gonna tell the others?

[megalony]

Conditions Of The Heart

I've been having a lot of fun switching between fandoms, and this is my first imagine for Robert Chase from House MD. I hope you will all like it.

Please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @talicat713 @niamhmbt @strawberry-canyon @bieberhoodforever @911fangirlie @hollandxxmix @jasmineee05 @creat1venat1onn @devilslittlehelper @darlingcharling-blog @bear8585 @nickie-amore @elliott-calls @person-005 @mbioooo0000 @amara-mars @shypy92 @nikfigueiredo @sabsthedoll @rach2602 @itshamleth @ladespedidas @devilslittlehelper @buckslifeline

Main Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n)'s been having health problems and symptoms that intervene with her work on House's team, but he doesn't think it's serious. Chase is the only one who believes her and tries to help.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Again?"

Why did he have to say it like that? Why did he have to make a big announcement? As if (Y/n) was doing something wrong or making am embarrassment of herself and he wanted the whole hospital to find out.

A deep frown set in (Y/n)'s features as she stared across at House like she was trying to burn holes through him with her dark glare, but her expression did nothing to waver his expression. His brow raised and that quirk in his lips remained set in a playful expression that was just dying to egg her on and see how many buttons he could press.

House's expression aggravated (Y/n) to no end and she couldn't help but let it show on her face in the form of a deep scowl.

It wasn't as if House let them have thousands of breaks during the day, they were lucky if they managed to get ten minutes off for a lunch break.

All (Y/n) was asking for was a few minutes to go downstairs to the clinic.

The first time she'd asked to go down to the clinic, House had been equally surprised and a little worried. It wasn't like (Y/n) to want to go and get checked out, and he hadn't noticed anything wrong with her or any visible symptoms. The second time a few days later when (Y/n) went to the clinic before going on shift, House had been very curious and (Y/n) knew he'd gone to look at her notes to find out what was wrong.

The third time he hadn't really been bothered since it was close to the end of her shift and she didn’t look too good. But now this was the fourth time and she had barely been up here in House's office for an hour and she was already asking to go down to the clinic to get checked out.

Did she not trust the team to go over her symptoms that were clearly persistent? Was this just a ploy to get a break from House and their newest case? Was she even going down to the clinic or was she going to take a break?

House had seen her notes. The doctors and nurses that had examined her each time hadn't found any underlying cause for her problems and symptoms. If House didn't know any better, he would guess that they were just rising symptoms of panic.

(Y/n) was a doctor, she was in one of the most prestigious teams in the best hospital in the country. She should know by now and be able to diagnose her symptoms as mere tools of anxiety. She didn't have to keep running down to the clinic to be assessed like this. She was disrupting House's team and his methods.

"You’ve been here an hour, you really want to go see Johnson that badly?" The teasing tone to House's voice made a fire spark in (Y/n)'s eyes and had adrenaline coursing through her already aching chest.

He knew she was in a relationship with Chase. It was one of the things House liked to poke fun at because the couple worked together- on House's team no less- and he liked to spark trouble and cause friction because life was a game.

But House also knew that most of the times that (Y/n) had gone to the clinic to ask for a check up or for help when her symptoms flared up, she bumped into the same colleague.

"House…" (Y/n) trailed off, not having it within her to start an argument. She just needed him to understand.

This wasn't a ploy to get out of trying to diagnose their current patient. This wasn't (Y/n)'s way of getting a well earned break or going to get something from the canteen. And this certainly wasn't her trying to sneak off to have a fling with another doctor. She wasn't well and she wanted help.

Being assessed by her own team wasn't something (Y/n) wanted. She wasn't very close with Foreman or Cameron so it would feel awkward if either of them tried to help her. And Chase was her partner, it would reflect badly if it was him assessing her and writing in her notes. Plus, they were currently working on a case. It wasn't the time for someone to take a break and assess (Y/n).

"You've been down there three times, and they said there isn't anything wrong. Wait 'til lunch." The tick of his head and the way House looked her up and down showed that he didn't want to be totally unreasonable.

But he couldn't see anything in her notes that suggested a problem. Elevated heart rate. Dizziness. Breathless. Blood pressure slightly higher than usual.

All symptoms of anxiety and specific symptoms that House would expect to find in the people who worked on his team. He was surprised (Y/n)'s symptoms weren't more frequent or harsher with the kind of strain this job had on them and the deadlines they had to find diagnoses for their patients.

After all, House only took special cases where a diagnosis was hard to find and usually, the clock was ticking on their patients.

She looked fine to House. She wasn't about to keel over or struggling for breath or in any visible pain or agony. She could carry on working until lunch time and if she still felt like she needed to be seen, then she could go on her break.

A defeated huff left (Y/n)'s lips and she turned, briskly walking away from the coffee station in the corner of the office.

What good would fighting him do? It would only prove to make herself feel worse and give House a sense of glee at some retaliation. And if she went he would only hold it against her or make her stay later to make up the most time.

Her fingers began to shake around her cup of coffee and as she walked around the table, she kept her eyes glued to the floor. Making sure to ignore the sympathetic look on Cameron's face and the blank stare Foreman gave her because he expected that answer from House.

The cup in her hand clattered down on the glass table with a thud that sent shivers down Chase's spine.

He winced and sank his teeth down into his lower lip as he watched his partner pull out and sink down into the chair beside him.

The pen in Chase's hand began to tap against the textbook laid out in front of him but his head angled to the right so he was looking at (Y/n). The scrutinising look in his pale blue eyes was clear; he was trying to see what symptoms she was feeling.

He knew what she had been experiencing. She told him of the infrequent palpitations she felt and how it made her lightheaded. And the bouts of breathlessness that made her feel like she was going to pass out and starved her lungs of oxygen.

But each time she went to the clinic, her symptoms faded or eased, they never lasted long enough for anything to show up on any tests and her symptoms weren't severe enough to admit her for further testing.

It felt like Chase was the only person who believed that something wasn't right but there wasn't much he could do either when the symptoms were sporadic and he could only assess her when they were at home or away from work. Officially he wasn't allowed to be her doctor.

A soft "Okay?" passed Chase's lips and he leaned in close and curled his hand around (Y/n)'s wrist while she slowly circled the pad of her finger around the rim of her cup.

She shrugged. Did it truly matter if she wasn't? Did it make a difference if she didn't feel well or if she felt uneasy? Did it matter if she was furious and upset and embarrassed that House had told her to suck up and keep working? She couldn't change any of it, so did it matter?

She continued to stare at her cup rather than drink it and with a sigh, (Y/n) leant to the left until her cheek was resting on Chase's shoulder.

Right now, she didn't care about being professional like she was usually so worried about. It didn't matter whether the team saw her being affectionate or close with Chase, it wasn't as if their relationship was a secret, nothing could be a secret in this place.

"Alright, so what theories have we got? Give me something good." House stood in his usual spot near the whiteboard, a pen behind his ear, a coffee in one hand and his cane in the other.

He looked around the table, but only Foreman seemed to be paying any attention to the task at hand. Cameron was drifting off, constantly looking in (Y/n)'s direction like she felt sorry for her, and Chase was annoyed. He wasn't going to answer or make any effort when House had just dismissed (Y/n) like that. And (Y/n) had all but given up trying to act interested.

With a sigh, Chase slouched back in his seat and parted his knees to the side. He still had (Y/n)'s head resting on his shoulder and every few seconds he turned and pecked the top of her head while his hand let go of her wrist and slid down to rest on her thigh instead. If any of the team noticed the affectionate touch, they didn't comment.

For a while, that was how their morning was spent. Chase barely chipping in with conversation, (Y/n) giving abrupt ideas that House contemplated and put on the board. And Foreman and Cameron rummaging through textbooks and trying to link all the patient's symptoms together.

There was still tension in the air and a thick atmosphere around them, but they were all trying to get on with their work to make it easier.

(Y/n) wasn't sure how much time passed as they all went through ideas and notations and delved into theories. But she knew that this time, her symptoms weren't fading like they usually did.

The tightness in her chest was starting to become overwhelming and it was causing that familiar breathlessness that made her throat burn and felt like her trachea was closing up. And her heartbeat was becoming more noticeable, each thump was bashing against her ribs and thundering beneath her skin and it caused a deafening ringing in one ear.

It was getting harder and harder to hold the tears at bay and carry on as normal.

She barely heard House giving out his usual orders, demanding for Cameron to give the patient an ultrasound and Foreman to go and run some blood samples. And she wasn't sure what he asked her and Chase to do, only hearing a few words here and there which she pieced together to assume he said that the 'love birds' can run a test together. The specifics had gone in one ear and out the other with the constant ringing she was hearing.

Chase pushed forward in his seat and tossed his pen down onto the table while he watched Cameron go to make herself another drink, and Foreman seemed to be making notations and little pointers again.

"Ready to go down to the lab?" He moved his hand from where it had been comfortably moulded against (Y/n)'s thigh so he could loop his arm around the back of her shoulders. But the slight shake of her head that he got in response took him by surprise.

He was even more surprised that (Y/n) leaned into him so affectionately considering the rest of the team were still in the room.

Chase felt (Y/n)'s hand resting on his thigh but her nails were starting to puncture through his trousers until they were piercing the skin. And she dug her chin down into his shoulder with her face tucked into the crook of his neck. It allowed her to lean into his chest while he tightened his arm around her shoulders, suddenly worried and on red alert.

"I- I don't feel right," Her voice strained slightly which Chase picked up on right away, causing his eyes to narrow as he looked down at her.

Her breathing was changing again. No longer controlled or placid and calm, but shallow and somewhat strained breaths that implied she wasn't getting enough air. And she was starting to tremble which in turn was making Chase tremble and caused shivers to scratch down his spine and throughout his nerves.

"What's wrong?"

"My chest hurts," (Y/n)'s voice sounded lighter than air this time, a mere whisper on the wind that Chase strained to hear despite having her lips hovering near his ear.

But when he glanced down and realised her free hand was rubbing over her chest, his complexion paled. This wasn't right. There was something wrong with (Y/n) and Chase was going to find out what it was, no matter what House said or did.

(Y/n) let her eyes close when she felt Chase's hand on her shoulder and how it glided up towards her neck. She wasn't sure what he was doing until he splayed his fingers out on the side of her neck, and she suddenly felt his index and middle finger pushing down on her pulse. He was silently counting her pulse without anyone else realising.

She knew he sensed it. The fluctuation in her heartbeat and she knew he tensed at the same time her chest quaked when she had a palpitation.

"Come on."

(Y/n) understood Chase's pretext and the hidden meaning behind his very few words.

House had given them a task, and Chase was going to use that as cover so he could get (Y/n) into an exam room and run some tests of his own. He was going to find out what was wrong, and House didn't need to know. They couldn't deal with an argument right now, as far as the team knew, they were going to run the tests they had been told to do.

It was comforting to feel Chase's hands on her skin when the pair of them got up, and (Y/n) was glad Chase was so close behind her. She wasn't sure how long she could keep herself upright when every limb was starting to tremble and her legs felt unusually weak and shaky.

They made it five strides towards the door to the office before (Y/n) stopped in her tracks, causing Chase to bump into her.

"Babe-" Whatever Chase had been ready to whisper suddenly fell upon deaf ears when (Y/n) stumbled.

Her quaking knees gave way and her wavering body plummeted backwards into Chase's chest and her head whacked into his shoulder, sending his body jolting to the left.

A groan tumbled past Chase's lips and his eyes went wide in their sockets as he grappled to bind his arms around (Y/n)'s waist, letting her weight crash into his chest. His knees ached as they tried to deadlock to hold them both up before he gave in and carefully moved to kneel on the floor, easing (Y/n) down with him as she was slumped back against his chest.

Shivers coursed up and down Chase's spine when (Y/n)’s trembling hand wavered to press to her chest as her breaths turned to strangled gasps.

"I could use some help!" He spat angrily, looking over his shoulder to find House staring at them both incredulously, much the same as Foreman. With Cameron being the only one to rush into action to try and help.

"C- Chase…" (Y/n) gasped, hardly able to get his name to pass through her lips from the shortness of breath the pain caused. Neither of them were sure what (Y/n) was asking of him, but Chase didn't seem to mind.

"Hey, come on, try and take deep breaths for me. Deep as you can." There was a slight edge of panic in Chase's voice while his left arm curved around (Y/n)'s waist and he pressed his palm down against the middle of her chest. Trying to feel her chest rising and falling just in case she was starting to breathe into her chest cavity, although he highly doubted that as a possibility.

His other hand moved to press back to the side of her neck while her head pushed down into his shoulder, tensing and writhing as she was clearly trying to remain in control despite her pain. And Chase tried his best to hide his wince and keep his shoulder tense beneath her head.

He hated how her features scrunched up in pain and she was almost froffing at the mouth from each ragged breath she gasped for.

(Y/n)'s heels bashed and scraped into the floor and she flopped into Chase's chest like a fish out of water, desperate to stop her suffocation. She closed her eyes and clenched her left hand down around Chase's thigh to try and ground herself.

But she was taken by surprise when a softer pair of hands took hold of her left hand. It was Cameron. She quickly attached a pulse clip to (Y/n)'s index finger before she pressed her stethoscope in her ears and pressed the end down into (Y/n)'s chest.

Cameron's lips formed into a concentrated pout but there was apprehension in her eyes. Especially when she saw that (Y/n)'s lips were becoming chapped and slightly discoloured on the inside. Tears were falling from her eyes like a stream when the pain in her chest felt like she was continuously being stabbed.

"Lungs are clear but there's muffling in her chest. I count at least three palpitations."

Lifting her head, Cameron looked up towards House who seemed to be observing them like they were performing a practical exam that he was going to grade. His eyes were narrowed and both hands were curled around his cane that was pressed down in front of him, allowing him to lean forwards and observe them more intimately.

"Lips are pale, she's not getting enough oxygen. Find a room and get her on oxygen and a dose of Atenolol. ECG should confirm an arythmia."

Chase fought the urge to roll his eyes or grunt in annoyance. Now House believed that something was wrong, all it took was for (Y/n) to collapse with breathing issues for them all to realise that she wasn't faking or trying to get out of work. She had a real health issue that no one had bothered to try and assess or work out.

"I can-"

"I've got her." Chase's words were snappy and to the point, cutting Cameron off before she had the chance to offer to help (Y/n) up.

A soft "Up we go," passed his lips as he switched his arms so one was around (Y/n)'s lower waist and the other slid beneath her knees. He pushed up to his feet, wincing at each shallow breath (Y/n) took which fanned against his throat as she tucked her face into his neck again.

He could feel her tears soaking into his skin and her trembling was surging through his blood and making him want to shake too.

He turned his head so his lips could press against (Y/n)'s burning temple and he had to concentrate so his hands didn't dig too harshly into (Y/n)'s skin and inflict any further unnecessary pain onto her.

When Cameron held open the office door, Chase hurried out, not caring that she and House were both following behind him. They could wait back in the office for all Chase cared. He needed to go and get (Y/n) set up in one of the empty rooms and get her on oxygen and medication to stop these symptoms from reoccurring.

This wasn't the first time (Y/n) had felt these symptoms, but it was the first time Chase had known her to collapse and suffer so much from them. Hopefully it was something as simple and treatable as an arythmia or maybe angina. He didn't want to think of there being any other serious problems; not for (Y/n).

Up until now, no one could find anything wrong. Hopefully this was it.

***

Tilting her head down, (Y/n) stared down at her thighs where her hands were beginning to tap out a rhythm. She didn't have to look up to see that Chase wasn't happy. The way his foot was repeatedly bashing against the floor was making the bedframe rattle and she knew instinctively that he had his arms folded tight over his chest.

House however, was a different matter. He looked unimpressed with his fingers twitching around the handle of his cane and his other hand was gripping the end of the bedframe.

"I need you both back to work. She's fine."

Pursing her lips, (Y/n) angled her head to one side and finally looked up towards her partner just in time to see Chase's nostrils flare and his lips curl into a grimace.

The palpitation she had suffered yesterday was most likely from an arythmia, but there was no single test to diagnose it. Angina was ruled out because (Y/n)'s cardiovascular blood vessels weren't constricted or tightening or weakening.

For an arythmia they had to monitor (Y/n), check each time she had symptoms or problems like yesterday and go from there. Either medication or trying to locate the section of the heart causing the issues and freezing it was their best course of action. None of which could be done within the next few days, they needed confirmation of this diagnosis.

But Chase wasn't so easily swayed. He didn't want (Y/n) to just go straight back to work. Yesterday had been different, it had been the first time she collapsed and he didn't want it happening again. She needed to rest and be monitored and they had to keep checking her heart to note the symptoms and changes.

"She's not fine, she has a heart condition-"

"That we can't diagnose without further symptoms and tracking. Do you feel fine?" House's attention turned to (Y/n), who didn't look too pleased about being talked about as if she weren't in the room with them.

Her hands began to glide up and down her thighs more vigorously and her eyes glanced up at Chase again. It was clear by his expression that if she said no, he would stick by her. He would stand up to House and make sure that she got another day or two or three on observation and an ECG to constantly check her heart rhythm.

But (Y/n) didn't want to be a burden. She had been okay since her episode yesterday morning. No more palpitations or shortness of breath, no more gasping for air. Being on oxygen for an hour and having beta-blockers had done the trick.

As long as she got to stay on observation and keep taking medication to try and ward off any further symptoms, (Y/n) would be okay.

She worked in a hospital, if she had any issues or fainting problems again then she was in the best place for it to happen.

Staying in this room as a patient was only going to help if something went wrong or she had further symptoms. Her chest was still aching and there was the odd pain but it was nothing serious and the monitors didn’t show anything. (Y/n) couldn’t sit here forever and wait until some sign appeared for what was causing this. For all they knew, it had stopped for good now.

When Chase locked eyes with (Y/n) he let out an irritated sigh, feeling anger boiling up inside of him when he realised he wasn’t going to be able to stop her from coming back to work.

"If she has any other symptoms or issues, you let her come back for observation."

"Fine. You'll be observing her and buzzing round her like a fly anyway." House waved his hand in Chase's direction before he turned and hobbled out the room.

It wasn't as if (Y/n) would be working away from the team or somewhere where they couldn't keep an eye on her. She would be with the team almost all the time, and when she went home she would still be with Chase. He could supervise and observe her to his heart's content. If she had any symptoms she could get back on an ECG and House would let Chase run any tests he liked.

But he wanted the whole team back on their current patient, back to doing their jobs that they were paid for. There was no use in (Y/n) sitting bored in here when she could be back with the team who were the most qualified to keep an eye on her and check her symptoms anyway.

Turning to the right, (Y/n) swung her legs over the side of the bed until her toes were just barely scraping the floor. And before Chase could utter one word, her arms were wrapped around his torso and her face was meshed into his sternum, breathing in his scent.

It was comforting to feel his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers tangling into her hair while his other hand roamed up and down her back in soothing circles.

"Are you sure you feel okay?"

"I feel better, I promise."

Chase leant down to kiss the top of her head while his thumb stroked up and down the back of her neck, causing shivers in his wake that he could feel soaring through (Y/n)'s skin.

"I'm keeping an eye on you," He murmured softly, the smallest hint of a smile tracing across his lips when (Y/n) angled her head back and looked up at him with that lazy grin that sent his own heart into a frenzy.

"I'm counting on it."

His lips were warm and sweet and his hand shifted to cup her neck, as if making sure she didn't move her head and try to break their kiss that was beginning to steal all the air from (Y/n)'s lungs just like her palpitations had done yesterday.

"So what does this do?"

(Y/n) fought as hard as she could to control her expression and steel her system. When she contorted a smile onto her face, she knew it wasn't as convincing as it should have been, and it wasn't as if she was about t give bad news or perform life-saving surgery.

But it wasn't the patient she was trying to protect. It was herself.

One week of a few meager symptoms and no collapsing or fainting at work. One week of Chase observing her and watching her like a hawk to no avail, because nothing else happened. After that one week, House seemed to believe that (Y/n)'s symptoms wouldn't flare up again and were either control or simply aggravated panic and therefore nothing to worry about.

It had been two weeks now since she had collapsed and her symptoms were simply flaring up in spates. A bit of a flush here and there, some breathless moments, the odd palpitation. Nothing serious enough to warrant another wave of panic or any further tests. Not that (Y/n) wanted any tests when they never seemed to prove that anything was wrong.

It was hard to keep smiling and reassuring the patient when she didn't feel like she was okay. She felt uneasy. The vein in her neck was throbbing like it was ready to explode. Her heartbeat was suddenly well aware in her chest. If anymore of her symptoms flared up she wasn't going to be able to perform this procedure.

"This allows us to remove the clot in your artery."

"No kidding, f-from all the way down there?"

"Blood vessels are like subway systems, this one goes right up to your lungs." At least her words seemed to comfort the patient and make him grin. He couldn't see the nerves hiding behind her eyes and he hadn't noticed that (Y/n) wasn't feeling her best right now.

Closing her eyes, (Y/n) took a moment to hold her breath and see whether it would make a difference or settle her system at all.

At least the patient wasn't panicking. (Y/n) would become a blundering mess if he didn't think she was capable or that she was too unnerved to do this minor surgery.

Out of all the strange symptoms and complications their patient had developed, no one had expected a blood clot to be one of them. Now they had changed his medication and were getting the clot from near his lungs.

To do that, they were inserting a tiny wire through the artery in his left leg which would go up through his system and reach the blood clot that was still partially blocking his blood vessel near his lung. It was a simple procedure, but (Y/n) had to steel her nerves and hold steady. Moving too fast or shaking as she inserted the wire could rupture the walls of his blood vessels and they couldn't have that happening.

"Just try and stay still, this won't take long."

(Y/n) flexed her fingers to try and rid the tension from her muscles and keep enough control so that she didn't start shaking. A doctor and any surgeon had to have steady hands, (Y/n) couldn't fall into trembles now.

She didn't realise she was holding her breath until her chest began to ache and she realised it wasn't one of her usual symptoms.

Her eyes focused on the wire she was steadily threading through the patient's thigh, watching it slither up his leg before she looked up to the monitor opposite her to make sure she was aiming the right way. Taking the right blood vessel. The right subway to get to the station that held the blood clot.

Chase was stood on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes watching her eagerly while his hand held the ultrasound over the patient's lower chest, right over his lung so they could keep check and make sure there were no other problems arising.

Chase noticed. He could see the signs (Y/n) was trying to hard to cover. He could see how her gaze kept flitting down to her hands and how she was putting all her concentration into keeping them steady, something she never had to think about doing on a normal day.

He noticed her throat tightening and her breaths increasing every now and then, despite this being a far more routine procedure compared to some of the surgeries they helped out with from time to time.

He watched with quirking lips and panic flooded eyes when (Y/n) uttered "Got it," but she sounded breathless.

Sweat was glistening on her brow and Chase could look no where else but at his partner. He watched her elbows resting on the bed as she tried to extract the wire from their patient's thigh without any sudden movements or ruptures. His fingers twitched and tightened around the ultrasound wand he was holding that he wasn't paying much attention to anymore.

"You're all done." The same breathlessness tore through (Y/n)'s chest and prevented her from trying to smile.

She was giving a patient good news. The clot had been extracted and his procedure was done. But (Y/n) was shaking as she placed a gauze patch over the incision and stepped away from the table.

She glanced across at Chase, giving him a brief look which he seemed to understand. He muttered "Let's get you back to your room." with a smile that could fool anyone and he paged for a nurse while (Y/n) started to retreat from the room.

The latex gloves seemed like she was peeling away a second layer of skin, the scrubs felt like they had been tied with sailor's knots at the back to keep her in a body suit like this.

Ripping them off was ten times harder than it should have been and (Y/n) shakily stuffed them into the waste bin on her way out the room.

She wasn't sure where she was heading, or where she was supposed to go now. House would probably want them back in his office so they could try and find the right diagnosis for their patient after this new development in his case. But (Y/n) didn't want to go back into the office yet, not when she was feeling like this.

The seats lined against the wall in the corridor seemed like a safe bet. (Y/n) plonked herself down in one of the chairs and slumped forward until her arms were flopped on her thighs and her head hung down, hoping to clear the dizziness that was ebbing away at the back of her mind.

"Hey, you okay?"

(Y/n) raised her head just enough to see Chase stood beside her, his head dipped to one side to look down upon her while he reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder.

"Palpitation," she mumbled, closing her eyes when she felt his hand immediately move from her shoulder to press against the side of her neck.

To anyone else it might have looked like a loving touch, but his middle and index fingers were feeling her pulse. His eyes narrowed as he felt her heartbeat, seeing that it wasn’t that much of a difference in rhythm but those little jumps and skips were there.

Chase brushed his thumb over the back of her neck when (Y/n) slumped against his front with her head pressing into the middle of his lower chest.

A sigh rumbled past his lips and he shifted his hand from her neck so his arm was loosely draped around the front of her chest, hugging her close as he leant down and buried his nose in her hair. He took a few slow breaths as he closed his eyes, feeling (Y/n)'s hand curl around his forearm like she was pinning him in place to ensure he didn't move one foot away from her.

He briefly opened his eyes at the sound of footsteps and Chase turned his head ever so slightly so he was still smothered against (Y/n)'s head, but he was able to glance down the hall.

Two nurses were wheeling their patient in the opposite direction, presumably and hopefully back to his room.

A peaceful silence enveloped them both as (Y/n) leaned into Chase who was wrapped around her like a comfort blanket. She found herself tapping her foot against the floor out of nervous habit, but her hands suddenly latched tightly around his arm and she tensed against him. Her chest seized and tightened as she doubled over with a gasp that caught Chase's full attention.

His lips parted, the question of what's wrong on the tip of his tongue until he felt the way (Y/n)'s chest seized and shuddered. Without thinking twice, he pressed his palm down against the centre of her chest before he fumbled to reach up to her neck and feel for her pulse.

Her heart was spasming. The palpitations and uneven rhythm were more prominent than last time.

This wasn't good.

"Up. C'mon, let's get you in the exam room." The urgency in Chase's voice made (Y/n)'s stomach churn and twist itself into knots and she whimpered in his arms. Clinging to the arm that was bound around her front while his other arm slid around her waist so he could help her up from the chair.

It felt and probably looked more like Chase was dragging her than walking with her, but (Y/n) was starting to flag in his arms. If he wanted to get her into a room to be checked out, heaving her there himself was the only way.

The couple stumbled into the new vacant room their patient had not long been in and (Y/n) reached one arm out to grasp the bed and lean against it when her knees started to tremble.

Her lips parted in a silent gasp and tears began to trickle down her features as that familiar suffocating feeling overwhelmed her and it felt like her heart had turned into a boom box. Each uneven beat was thundered against her ribs and pulsed through her blood and nerves and it hurt. It hurt to feel and notice each thundering beat of her heart that had her shoulders coiling inwards like her chest was trying to break itself in two.

She didn't quabble when Chase lifted her up and sat her down on the bed, and when his hands found her shoulders and he pushed to ease her down, (Y/n) didn't fight him. But she did coil her knees up near her stomach. Laying flat somehow didn't feel right. She wanted to curl up into a ball. Bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms tight around her waist was the closest she could get to the fetal position.

A pitiful cry along with a broken "Oow," left her lips before she snapped her eyes closed.

And when Chase's hand rested on the base of her chest, presumably to try and keep her still and to calm her down, (Y/n) grabbed his wrist until her nails were scraping against his skin.

Chase fumbled for the pager strapped to his belt, trying to compose himself and hold in his panic just long enough so he could type a message which he sent to all the team. Instructing them of an emergency which they needed to come down to the exam room to help with.

"Alright, alright babe. I'm gonna do an ultrasound, okay?"

(Y/n) nodded while her neck pushed out and she shoved her head back until she was almost tearing through the flimsy pillow beneath her. She could barely open her eyes enough to see a blurred image of Chase hovering over her.

She didn't care what he did or how he tried to help, she just wanted him to do something to ease her pain and terror.

With one hand clenched around his wrist, (Y/n) fumbled to whack her other arm out above her head towards the wall behind the bed. As soon as she grasped hold of the oxygen mask hooked there, Chase leant over and turned the oxygen machine on. (Y/n) didn't care about the wire wrapping and tangling around her arm because once the mask was over her lips, she was getting some form of help. Just enough oxygen to get through her system and keep her going considering she seemed to be suffocating. Again.

"Okay, okay…" Chase muttered a few other things to himself that (Y/n) couldn't make out, but she knew he was just trying to stay composed and walk himself through this.

He pressed his hips into the side of the bed so he could lean over her and a flicker of a grin pulled at the corner of his lips when he moved both hands to (Y/n)'s shirt. He locked eyes with her when he pulled and undid the buttons on her shirt until it was completely undone and he could see her bra. Unfortunately he didn't need to take that off.

(Y/n) barely felt the gel he squeezed onto her chest which was trembling and jutting up and down with infrequent breaths and gasps that were causing her throat muscles to tighten and constrict.

She had had an ultrasound two weeks ago after her other flare up of symptoms. But by the time she had been put on oxygen, an ECG and had her beta-blockers, the ultrasound was useless. Her symptoms had simmered down and her heart had been back to beating normally. The scan showed nothing amiss.

But Chase was hoping that doing a scan now, while she was actually suffering her strange variety of symptoms, that it might flag up something.

"Try and stay still babe, take a deep breath for me."

Chase's voice was lulling, almost as if he were putting her under a trance and (Y/n) nodded when the ultrasound was pressed down on her chest. It felt like he was trying to imbed it into her ribs, but she knew he was just trying to get a good look at her heart.

She took as deep a breath as she could manage, pushing her chest up and shifting from left to right as it became harder and harder to stay still when all she wanted to do was shake and writhe in agony.

"Breathe out."

With his right hip pressed against the bed, Chase had his right elbow resting on (Y/n)'s stomach as he moved the sonogram a little so get a better image. His left hand reached out for the monitor and he zoomed in a few centimetres.

(Y/n) wasn't sure whether the furrow in his brows and the slight pout of his lips was a good sign or not. Something had caught his eye or come to mind, that much was clear.

"Shallow breaths, start panting."

A whimper left (Y/n)'s lips and she brushed her cheek against the pillow while her hands clenched into fists and pushed down into the bed.

"Please baby, I know it hurts but I need you to try." Chase's expression turned to one flooded with sympathy. He knew she was in agony and he knew breathing was a struggle, but he had to see her heart rhythm changing and panting would use more oxygen and make her heartbeat increase.

(Y/n) tried, she panted as much as she could but it didn't feel like she was actually taking in any oxygen from the mask. Although she was sure she must have been because Chase leaned so close to the monitor that she feared he might end up putting his head through it.

"We got your 911… what are you doing?" Cameron's hands clung to the door handle as she paused in the doorway, unsure whether to step over the threshold or not when she wasn't quite sure what they were up to.

"Blood's leaking into her left ventricle. I need a better image, but the mitral valve looks loose."

Chase looked like he was panting, his jaw loose and eyes wide as he stared at the team as they flooded into the room.

An ultrasound wasn't such a great way to view the heart, but from what he could see, there was blood flowing back into the heart. Valves were like doors that closed after the blood pushed through to the next chamber of the heart, but if one was loose the blood could leak back and that caused a whole lot of problems.

Clearly this wasn't happening often enough for this to be visible on the scans they had done, and it wouldn't be prominent or visible on an ECG monitor.

If this was the right diagnosis then (Y/n) would need keyhole surgery to strengthen the valve and ensure this stopped happening. They had to stop this before it got any worse.

"I'll book a CT scan." Foreman held his hands out at his sides like he was giving some kind of apology for not believing anything like this could have been the cause. And he backed out of the room to give them some privacy and get the scan sorted. The sooner they diagnosed this, the sooner they could get (Y/n) to surgery and prevent it from happening again.

"Let me check your blood pressure, then we can find something to control the symptoms." Cameron's voice was soft and oddly quiet but her smile was comforting as she rounded the opposite side of the bed to Chase so she could try and help (Y/n).

(Y/n) was sure that her tight grip had left indents on the oxygen mask she was moulding against her face, but right now she didn't care. She inched the mask down her face just enough so that she could tilt her head back and look up at Chase when she realised he had put the sonogram away and was back to leaning over her.

His fingers softly carded through her hair and gently fluttered along her temple, but it was that calming smile and those ruby red lips that made (Y/n) feel a surge of adrenaline and shivers running down her spine.

And when she felt his lips attaching to her temple in a wet kiss, she leaned into the touch and hummed.

"You're gonna be alright now. We can fix this."

[colorlessjay]

Absolutely in love with your drawing of Dean teaching Cas how to shoot! And I aggressively support the headcanon that Dean gets a bit intimate/touchy when teaching Cas new things.

I have a WIP fic on AO3 where human/mostly human Cas goes to Sam for Valentine’s Day advice and spills that his crush is on a man (bc Sam is like “why are you asking me and not Dean?”) Dean finds out and gets a little hurt that Cas wouldn’t think he’d support him or would judge him for liking a guy and overcompensates by trying to help Cas have a perfect Valentine’s date, which of course includes teaching Cas how to make this mystery guy that Cas has a crush on (who weirdly sounds a lot like Dean, not that Dean’s jealous or anything) a pie or, as Dean calls it “The Art if Seduction via Pie”

Long story short: I thought you might enjoy this snippet of it/your drawing reminded me of this part where Dean gets a little cozy teaching Cas how to roll out pie crusts

——— Cas

“Dean,” Cas says his name slowly while turning to face the man who is waiting patiently for him.

“Cas?” Dean teases him back with the same slow draw of his name.

“You must be exhausted. We really don’t have to make the pie, if you don’t want too. I’m sure that-”

“Hey! None of that! I’m good, and it’s just downright rude for you to think I’d break a promise, especially to you, and even more especially about pie,” Dean teases, but there’s something heavier in the words that Cas doesn’t have time to try and decipher before Dean barrels on, “Now, I’ve already unpacked the groceries, so let’s get this show on the road before I pass out.”

Cas opens his mouth to protest that no pie is worth Dean’s health, but he’s stopped by the sharp look Dean gives him. Instead, he obediently follows as Dean leads the way into the bunker.

The silent walk toward the kitchen gives Cas’ mind the time to begin processing some of Dean’s words.

Groceries? That means we stopped at some point, but he didn’t wake me. Then he let me sleep until the last moment while he unpacked. He has sacrificed time, sleep, and money so I can have a good, nonexistent, date.

Sudden warmth and pressure press against his eyes and chest as love for Dean washes over his whole being. It’s so overwhelming that he misses the next step down on the stairs and noisily flails to regain his balance.

“Dude, you okay? You sure you didn’t get a concussion? Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have let you sleep,” Dean mutters as he turns around and begins raking his gaze meticulously over Cas looking for nonexistent head wounds.

Cas feels the odd dual urge to preen and squirm under the scrutiny but shakes off both in favor of alleviating Dean’s mounting worry and guilt.

“I’m fine, Dean. I promise. I was still a little groggy from sleeping in the car and missed a step,” He manages despite the feeling still glowing in his chest, hoping Dean mistakes the heat on his neck and cheeks for embarrassment.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, clearly unconvinced but he continues anyway.

Thankfully they make it to the kitchen without any further issue. Dean begins chatting excitedly about how they need to make the dough first so it can chill but all Cas can focus on is that what he assumes are all the necessary items are already prepared and waiting on the counter. Love threatens to topple him again, energy building in his chest until he’s sure is going to explode at any second. He basks in the warmth until he hears Dean’s excited explanation stop suddenly and get replaced with soft, unsure words.

“Hey, I’m running on empty here, so it took me a bit to realize that maybe… maybe you might not really want to do this and that’s why you keep asking me about it. I know, I know I can get stuck on things, but I need you to understand that it’s okay if you don’t want to do this. I can bake something tomorrow or whenever so nothing’s wasted. Seriously, guilt free, if you changed your mind or if it feels too overwhelming right now or for whatever reason; just say the word and I’ll do whatever you want, Cas.”

The feeling flares and thrums painfully, a wild animal caged within his ribs, desperately seeking freedom, howling in outrage at Dean’s doubt and concern. He should say yes, should release Dean from this promise, should let him get some sleep. He should be more like Dean and do the selfless thing for once.

He opens his mouth to lie and say he doesn’t want to bake with Dean, but the pacing beast his chest digs its selfish claws into his tongue, forcing the truth out of his lips instead.

“No! I mean, yes. I want to do this; I want you to teach me how to make a pie. I just- I kept asking you because- I don’t want you to feel … obligated to do all this after, uh, everything.”

“Hah! Dude, this is pie we’re talking about. It’s never an obligation and neither are you,” Dean laughs before going still.

Cas is sure, by the way Dean blinks and opens his mouth that he probably hadn’t meant to say the last part, but he doesn’t make a joke or take it back.

“You know what, I stand by that. Now, as I was saying. The dough has to chill for a bit, so we make that first and then prep the filling while it’s in the fridge. Alright, step one is washing your hands.”

Even though he must be exhausted to his bones, Dean is an excellent and patient teacher. He explains each step to Cas and answers any questions he has. As soon as they get serious about the baking, the tension and unease dissipate and it’s almost as if nothing has changed at all. Dean’s passion and enthusiasm are contagious and intoxicating and Cas finds himself smiling so much his cheeks ache.

Soon enough the dough has been made, split, wrapped in plastic wrap, and set in the freezer to chill.

“Alright, the filling is easier but more tedious,” Dean says as he sets several washed apples onto the metal countertop. “You want to peel or slice?”

Cas considers for a moment, opening his mouth to ask if he can be the one to peel but he sees Dean stifle a yawn into his shoulder, eyes watering with the effort to hide it.

“I’ll slice if you show me how you want them,” Cas answers, wanting to do this one small thing for Dean, and not quite trusting the man not to hurt himself with the sharp blade in his current state of fatigue.

Dean makes quick work of peeling an apple and shows Cas how to core and slice it into thin layers before adding it to the bowl.

They fall into an easy rhythm, both of them doing their tasks and simply enjoying the silence of one another. After a few minutes though a thought pops into Cas’ head and out of his mouth before it fully forms.

“Did Mary or John do this with you? Did they teach you? Is that where your love of cooking and baking comes from?”

Dean blinks at him uncomprehendingly for a few minutes before keeling over with laughter. Cas smiles at the sound, though he’s not sure what he said that Dean could find so humorous. Dean straightens and wipes the tears from his eyes before he replies.

“Nah! Mom was a pretty bad cook and an even worse baker and Dad, uh, he never really had a lot of time for stuff like that. Living on the road with Sam, I started cooking because I kind of had to. Dad wasn’t always there to get us food and there’s only so many sandwiches and canned soups and cereals you can take before you begin to get creative. I must’ve come up with at least a hundred ways to make Mac n’ Cheese exciting. Although, after I resorted to adding marshmallow fluff mix, I decided I needed to learn how to cook real food. So, I started watching cooking shows in motels that had TVs, stealing cookbooks from local libraries, and tearing recipes out of magazines. I’m not sure which pissed my dad off more, the fact that I was wasting my time on such a girly activity or all the inedible food I made in the beginning. But I, I ended up being pretty good at it and soon enough both he, begrudgingly, and Sam were pretty thankful.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas whispers, afraid if he says anymore, says it any louder, the sorrow he feels for how Dean had been forced to grow up would burst the dam of his emotions and spill out in liquid form down his cheeks.

“For what, Cas?” Dean asks, head tilted and appearing genuinely confused, the truth of his childhood so ingrained that he doesn’t see anything wrong with having to provide himself and Sam with meals, with John leaving them for long enough that he had to improvise so many times, with the disdain John had for him trying to learn, trying to better provide for himself and his brother.

“Dean, you must know that you shouldn’t have had to do that. You should have been allowed to learn how to cook because you truly enjoyed it. Not because you needed to, not because you didn’t have an adult who cared for you like they should have, but because you wanted to.”

“Dude, we travelled around with Dad hunting demons, none of that is really conducive to a normal childhood. Do I sometimes wish I’d had a more average upbringing, sure. But then I remember how selfish that would have been, wishing Dad were around more instead of saving other people. So, we all did what we had to do, I learned to take care of Sam and I and Dad saved people. When I think of it like that, it doesn’t really bother me that much anymore.”

Dean must still be able to see the anger storming in his face because he pauses his peeling to squeeze Cas’ arm and say soflty, “Hey, there’s a lot of things that, in a perfect world, should have been, but I’ll only make myself crazy if I think about them too long. And, look, I really do enjoy cooking and baking now, as evidenced by my growing muffin top. In fact, if I liked it any more, you’d probably have to roll me out on hunts.”

Cas rolls his eyes, choosing to let the righteous anger go for Dean’s sake and choosing to address his newest concern, “Dean, please. Your body is in peak condition. And a couple extra pounds would only add to your perfection”

The words slip out and Cas blames it on the spell of intimacy created by standing elbow to elbow with Dean as they work to create something together.

“I, oh, um. Thanks, Cas,” Dean splutters handing Cas one last peeled apple before moving away to get the other ingredients for the filling.

Or in retreat.

“Dean, I-” Cas starts to apologize, worried he’s gone too far.

“Relax, I know it was just a compliment to battle my self-deprecation. I promise I won’t read into it too much. Okay, so now we add the lemon juice, cinnamon, sugar, and flour. And my secret ingredient, which you are sworn to secrecy about by the way, cornstarch. It helps the filling not to get too soggy and holds everything together to make it easier to cut later.”

Cas relents and nods his understanding, some part of him screaming that he wishes Dean would read into his words a bit more, would guess Cas’ feelings and end his misery one way or another.

Finally, the filling is done and Dean sets it to the side, but not before snagging a piece of slathered apple out of the bowl and holding it up to Cas’ mouth in offering.

He’s too stunned to refuse, lips and tongue giving Dean’s fingers the barest brush as he accepts this odd, though welcome, communion.

“Hmm, that it delicious,” Cas breathes, not expounding on what he is referring to.

“Hah, yeah, just wait until it’s baked,” Dean responds, his words a little stilted as he takes a piece for himself.

Cas tries not to notice how he uses the same fingers to feed himself that he’d used for Cas, how he licks the syrupy mixture off those appendages that Cas’ own tongue had touched just seconds ago.

He is still fighting with unholy thoughts of those fingers when Dean returns to his side with the chilled balls from the freezer.

“Okay, now this is the tricky part,” Dean prefaces as he pulls out a silicon mat marked with concentric rings of different measurements. He unwraps the first chunk of dough and places it in the center of the mat.

“You have to roll out the dough to be this size, but it’s important that you do it evenly. If the dough is too thick it won’t bake all the way through, but if it’s too thin it can tear and all that yummy cinnamon sugar and lemon juice syrup we drenched the apples in will leak out of the bottom. Not to mention it will make it a bitch to cut and serve.”

Dean picks up a wooden cylinder with handles, something Cas knows must be for baking but can’t quite place the name of and covers the length of it in flour.

“It’s important to coat the rolling pin as well as the surface you’re rolling on with flour, so the dough doesn’t stick. It’s cold right now so it’s not super sticky but it will get stickier as it warms up. The trick to getting a nice, even pie crust is to be quick and efficient and get it rolled out before the dough warms up.”

Cas nods like he’s following Dean’s instruction when in reality he’s transfixed by how serene and beautiful Dean looks as he firmly but gently presses down on the center of the flattened dough and pushes the rolling pin away from him. After a few strokes he flips and rotates the dough before adding more flour to the pin and repeating the process. When the dough is nearing the ring labeled nine inches, Dean stops and offers the pin to Cas.

“Alright, lover boy, your turn.”

“Dean, I really don’t think I should. I’m sure I’ll mess it up.”

Even as he protests, green eyes draw Cas to the spot Dean had previously occupied in front of the dough. He positions the rolling pin like he’d seen Dean do but he can’t seem to figure out how pick a direction to start moving in.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help,” Dean chuckles, sidling up behind Cas and reaching around him to place his hands atop Cas’ on the rolling pin. He moves their hands confidently, showing Cas the right amount of pressure to apply and how far to roll before turning the dough.

Dean doesn’t appear to be affected by the closeness, but Cas drowns in it. If he had thought the blanket in the Impala was nice, it was nothing compared to the warmth of Dean’s chest against his back, the smell of him enveloping him, his hot breath puffing against Cas’ cheek as he peers around him to see the dough and continues explaining his actions.

Dean

“There, that’s perfect,” Dean whispers, not trusting his voice with more than that as he reluctantly removes his hands from Cas’ and pulls away.

He makes a quick grab for the foil pan he’d buttered earlier to hide how his hands tremble with the effort of letting go.

He shows an oddly quiet Cas how to gently drape the fragile dough over the pan and press it down. They add the filling and Dean has the other ball of dough unwrapped and flattened in the center of the mat before he steps away again.

“You wanna try doing the top?” He asks, nodding encouragingly when Cas hesitates to take up the rolling pin again.

Cas begins, frequently staring up at Dean during the process. He doesn’t do badly, he just doesn’t do great either. It only takes a few uneven passes for him to lock eyes with Dean, his expression clearly screaming help me.

Dean smiles and slides into his earlier position with far too much eagerness. He doesn’t think about all the reasons why he shouldn’t be spooning Cas from behind, why he shouldn’t rest his chin on Cas’ shoulder, why he shouldn’t be breathing praise and encouragement into the angel’s ear. He’s too tired to deny himself this little indulgence while he still can.

Letting go of Cas to place the top crust is harder the second time, in more ways than one, and Dean is grateful for the flannel tied around his waist.

“Alright. Now we slice off any extra and we crimp the edges like this,” Dean demonstrates pressing the top and bottom pieces of dough together and forming the clamshell like shape by pressing the pointer finger of his left hand into the “V” he forms with his right thumb and pointer finger.

He’s about to ask Cas if he wants to try, but the intensity of the man’s eyes on him takes his breath and the thought away and he continues around the edge of the dish until it’s all done. He deftly slices a few vents in the top before retrieving an egg from the fridge and cracking it into a bowl with some water.

“Why do we need an egg? Shouldn’t we have added it before now?” Cas asks making Dean grin like an idiot, more than a little excited that Cas seems to be genuinely interested in the process.

“With any other baking, yes. But this isn’t for the pie itself, it’s for an egg wash. We’re going to use this,” he holds up a basting brush, “to cover the crust.”

“Why?” Cas asks incredulously.

“Taste is important, but presentation is too. This will give the pie a nice, shiny, golden color.”

Dean gets the pie coated and puts it into the oven before turning back to Cas and having to cover his mouth to keep from howling with laughter.

He hadn’t noticed when he was focused on getting the pie made and in the oven, but Cas is absolutely covered in flour. Not just his clothes but a smudge on his face from where he’d wiped it after dusting the rolling pin, in his hair, and even more hilariously, on his backside from where the flour on Dean’s own clothes had transferred.

“Dean?”

“Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry, but we’re kind of a mess,” Dean attempts to explain as he tries to tamp down the hysterical giggles bubbling up in his chest again.

Cas looks down at himself before his eyes bounce back up to Dean’s, mirth welling in them.

They both crack at the same time, loud laughter mingling and filling the kitchen with warmth.

———

hey noxemma

Could you like, put this in A03 so I can Kudos this and recommend it to my friends

Much love, very vibe, will draw later

[opulace]

── HOMECOMING 糸師 冴 itoshi sae

contains: fem!reader, angst, aged up characters, breakup (reasons unspecified), implied childhood friendship and sibling-like relationship with rin

word count: 0.8k

the past comes running back and you can't hide from it, no matter how hard you try. a part of you never wanted to anyway.

grief manifests in shades of pink.

it's in strands of a darker, brownish tint. locks that loved being tangled between your fingers, stroked and combed through with soft touches and bathed in sunlight as they splay over plush white pillows and tousle from being buried in the comfort of your chest. you still find them strewn around the house, loose strings trapped in the shower, a wisp on the living room floor, mixed in with the sheets. no matter how much you clean, traces of them remain like the permanent draw of lint to nylon.

you see it in the shade of pink painting your lips, one that's left countless stains across the cheeks, forehead, lips, nose, anywhere within reach, of the one you loved, still love. the exact hue in the tube burning into the back of your eyelids along with every curve, angle and sculpt of his face.

it's immortalised in pictures, the dust of colour finely powdered across his cheeks when you say something and catch him off guard, once round with baby fat and slowly loosing its fullness as the years rolled by. now you can only hope to trace across them with the pad of your thumb, all that's left is the feeling of glossy paper on your skin.

it's strange isn't it, how the world seems to continue in its orbit, yet your whole universe seems to have simply stopped, frozen in a time where the other side of your bed was still warm and there were two toothbrushes in the mug by the sink.

your days have felt hollow since itoshi sae left, nothing but passing dates checked off the calendar.

everything reminded you of him. that used to be a happy thought, akin to a sweet nothing. you spent a good portion of your life with him after all, once neighbours to the itoshi's, now just a receipient of apologetic smiles. you're still close to his mother, you drop by with flowers every month and she insists on cooking you a meal, just like old times.

she'd sit you down and talk about you, what you've been up to and how's the family, but never about him. yet just being in that home, felt like holding a piece of him in the palm of your hand that you should no longer have access to. it felt wrong, and you felt guilty, though she never has and never will hold it against you.

you see rin there on a rare occasion and you catch up over tea like grown adults, even if it means still being sat cross legged on the floor of his childhood bedroom like when you were kids and having convenience store popsicles after.

there's no more toys scattered over the ground, no more bunk bed, just a twin sized bed one on each extreme end of the room. it's mostly untouched, only rin occupies it when he returns home on breaks to visit family. the less than perfect plushie you gave sae at age five still sits against the headboard. you can't bear to look at it for too long.

"i win. what about you?"

you shake my head, showing him the stick. you used to, not anymore.

"i spoke to niichan the other day." that's new, you didn't know they were on speaking terms.

"he asked about you." oh.

you look up at him then, expression unreadable for the most part but there's a slight hint of pain no matter how much you try to bury it. the words leave you before you can stop them, barely above a whisper, "what did he say?"

"asked me to check up on you."

"what, does he think i can't take care of myself?" you scoff, but there's no bite, there never is when it comes to him. "is that why you're here?"

he doesn't deny the latter.

"you know he doesn't think that." rin mentions offhandedly, but really, he's eyeing you as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "season's wrapping up, he's coming home."

he's coming home.

you can't help the tinge of bitterness seeping through your words, and as you picked at your nails, a part of you knew that deep down, you never moved on, and if rin's words imply what you think they do, maybe he hasn't either, but you need to hear it straight.

no roundabouts, no beating around the bush.

"and what has that got to do with me?"

he sighs, letting his head loll and his fridge mask his eyes for just a second, like he knew this would happen, "do you really need me to spell it out for you neesan?"

"he wants to see you."

notes. should i do a pt2 of the meeting or let them grovel

masterlist

taglist: open (link to form) @mikiruie @saucejar @stellar-headquarters

© opulace. please do not repost, plagiarise, translate, or feed my work to ai.

[corrie-zodori]

No but I'm gonna go on a little tangent here actually Tenna H u r t s me dude. Like. We're all aware "omg the tv saw the whole divorce" but really REALLY think about the weight of that. Kris could get up and walk away and go to their room if they really wanted to, but Tenna? He can't move. Not in the real world. And like, Ralsei might be like "Darkners aren't real" but it's VERY Clear that Tenna existed and had relationships long before we ever stepped foot in TV world. He was AWARE of what was going on in the real world *the entire time.* He LITERALLY saw the entire thing, something he CLEARLY has memories of. He was a captive audience to EVERY argument they ever had in that living room. He had to watch his family fall apart, with no way to mediate, communicate, break it up, scream, nothing.

He just had to helplessly watch as everything that made their lives stable and happy rotted away. And he, himself, likely saw his own happiness and stability rotting away, knowing what this would mean for his own future. He had no way to stop it from happening, he could only hope for escapism whenever he had the opportunity. Always looking for an answer or a way to bring things back to how they were to an obsessive and even childish degree. But no, he was just cast aside, probably never going to be turned back on again, left to be alone. (Side note, that's also why I agonize over the neutral/weird route end of chapter 3. Dude got ONE minute of happiness before getting killed and in those routes he just straight up dies. He can't even enjoy this moment for more than a few seconds before he's just destroyed.) Idk maybe that's part of the reason Tenna struck such a chord with me, and why Kris is also growing on me rapidly. My verdict: This stupid tragic wet towel of a tv man makes me insane.

[kittsuneriyu]

Coming with a second batch of headcanons, and once again most are killer centered. 007n7 is here but we can ignore him /j.

007n7 watches soap operas (I think that's how they're called), but not the tame ones, but the ones where alot of drama happens: love affairs, cheating, betrayal and alot of revelations. He's just a simple guy in the end. c00lkidd kinda took some liking for drama from him (not the romantical drama, the discussion kind of drama.)

Hear me on this because it's kinda specifc. Theres a show where people go to make DNA tests to comprove their paternity. The thing is, in normal cases people do it normally right? So there a show where (In all words) hell's breaks loose: fights, cussing, threats, all of that. Insane right? That's the kind of stuff c00lkidd, 1x1x1x1 and Noli are up to watch in round breaks aside from the sopa operas. (Other killers might join too but mainly these three since they take great joy on other peoples disgrace.)

c00lkidd and 007n7 can't stand still, kidd kicks his feet, 7n7 bounces his leg.

Father and son sometimes get to use those little moments where nothing is happening to chat about whatever comes into their minds, their day, something funny, a fact or something they saw. Those little chit-chats that kill time and strengthen their bond.

c00lkidd and 007n7 had the habit of giving people nicknames to remember who they were, after forsakened c00lkidd still uses it to remember how the surviors act (ex: pizza guy, blue haired or fancy guy)

A kid is a reflex of their parent. 007n7 was a hard to control individual, never taking things seriously, thinking all was a game. He did what he wanted because individual's opinions or punishments never mattered at all. c00lkidd is not different, hard to control despite respecting his father he never stopped to think how his actions might affect the others. (I hope it makes sense.)

Noli once got in a discussion with c00lkidd and it ended up with kidd shouting in the loudest volume his troath could produce, the whole cabin heard that and maybe Noli got a bit upset at that, just a little. (He wasn't upset about the comment, but the fact 7n7 kid probably hated him, they mended things later.)

When c00lkidd mentioned Noli's color it was a reproduction of how people also talked about his own skin.

Noli cooks some weird stuff after the Voidstar, not bad just uncommon. (I'll be honest this came up just because I wanted to reference the Pará Lanches joke. I need to stop making references to stuff that most of people won't get.)

[luvendiary]

gravitational pull / f. weasley

fred weasley x reader

request: hiiii love u and ur writing first off! In between was the first fic of yours i read and still one of my all time favs. Can u write a fred weasley x reader enemies to lovers fic where they just find each other completely and genuinely insufferable for years. Fred thinks shes shallow, maybe shes rich so he thinks she out of touch and superficial but then fred is in the three broomsticks and overhears her doing a tiny desk type concert of her original songs to a small audience and is taken aback by how beautiful her voice is and the emotion in the lyrics she writes? Ill let you continue it from there :P TYYyy warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. nsfw-ish. 9.1k words author's note: i'm back! yay! i'm home now and so so happy. thank you for your request dear anon, i had so much fun with this one. i hope you can reader is very daisy jones inspired. also, tell me if you like these sort of oc's, i use them to move the storytt along, but if it's not something you're interested i'll try to avoide them. hope you enjoy it!

“You ready?” your guitarist asked you  as you sat on the stool near the end of The Three Broomsticks.

You gave him a smile, with a tilt of your head. “Are you ready?”

Tom was American. You had met him through a friend of yours during a New Year’s Eve party — one of those glittery rooftop affairs in one of those fancy New York buildings, where champagne flowed too easily and the fireworks always felt just a little too close.

You had felt out  of place immediately. But you acted as if this is what you had been born to do.

At first, it had been one of those things — the kind that starts with a glance across the room, some lazy banter, and ends with kisses that taste like sweet wine and bad decisions. A New Year’s hookup, nothing more. Fun. Temporary.

But Tom had stuck around.

Not in the clingy way. Just… in the kind of way that felt easy. The spark had faded into something better, calmer and steadier — no longer romantic, but something else entirely full of  late-night jam sessions, and the way you both liked your coffee a little too strong.

You started playing together not long after. At first it was just a way to kill time — a song here, a verse there. But then something clicked. You didn’t even remember when exactly. It just happened.

He loved your voice. Said it sounded like bruised velvet and cigarette smoke, even though you didn’t smoke. Said it meant something. You picked up the habit after that.

And you? You loved how he made the guitar sound like it had something to say. Like it wasn’t just an instrument — it was a second voice. An echo of what you couldn’t put into words.

It worked.

And the best part? It was never complicated. There was never a weird what if between you. You flirted sometimes — but like friends who knew exactly where the line was and had no real desire to cross it again. It was safe. It was solid.

He knew when to let you take center stage and when to quietly back you up. No ego. No weirdness. Just music.

So when he chuckled now, adjusting his strap and checking the tuning pegs with practiced fingers, it felt like the beginning of something familiar. Something warm.

The pub wasn’t full, but it wasn’t quiet either — a good crowd, enough to fill the front and scatter throughout the booths. Most were sipping butterbeer and chatting idly, not yet noticing that the impromptu corner stage was being set for something more than background noise.

Tom tested a chord. The reverb caught the attention of a nearby couple, who turned toward the stage with mild curiosity. You shifted slightly on your stool, the heels of your boot settling behind the wooden bar at the base.

“Three?” he asked under his breath.

“Three,” you confirmed with a nod. “Then break.”

He grinned, giving you a wink as he launched into the soft intro of your first song.

And just like that, the pub began to quiet — slowly, gradually — as your voice slid into the air like honey over glass.

The first song settled into the room like dusk — slow, rhythmic, hypnotic. It started soft, your voice barely more than a breath against Tom’s low, melodic strumming. But then it deepened, anchored by the soft thrum of your bass as you cradled it against your hip and let the lyrics pour out.

It wasn’t a loud song. But it was honest. A quiet kind of honesty that demanded attention.

You felt it shift.

At first it was just the nearest tables, their heads turning slowly, conversations dipping. Then the booths further back. The bartender leaned forward over the counter. Even the group near the fireplace fell silent, their mugs halfway to their lips. It wasn’t flashy or loud. But it was the kind of thing that had gravity.

You didn’t look up much — didn’t need to. You could feel their attention. Like a hush wrapped around your shoulders. 

When the last note faded and Tom let the final chord ring out beneath your closing hum, the applause came quick. Not explosive. But real. Warm. From the gut.

You gave a crooked smile as you reached for your tuner and adjusted a string.

“Well,” you said into the mic, casually, as you twisted a peg with your thumb, “it’s good to be back.”

A few cheers scattered across the crowd, growing louder when someone near the front raised their drink in solidarity. You laughed, letting the bass hang off your shoulder by its strap, loose and easy.

“I’ve been in America for a while,” you continued, rolling your wrist, “writing, playing… drinking terrible coffee and learning that Los Angeles doesn’t believe in clouds.”

That got a few more laughs.

You gestured toward Tom with your pick. “This is Tom. He’s American, but we try not to hold that against him.”

More laughter — and a round of applause that made Tom smirk silently and give a little two-finger wave, his usual stoic charm completely at odds with his effortless skill.

“He also refuses to talk on stage, so if he becomes your favorite, just know that he will not acknowledge it.”

You let the crowd chuckle again, swaying slightly on the stool, as you resettled the bass against your body.

“Alright,” you said, letting a little fire creep into your voice. “This next one’s a little faster. If it hits something, let it. If you feel like dancing, do it. If you feel like crying, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Someone in the back whooped.

You grinned.

“I don’t play for silence,” you added. “So don’t give it to me.”

And then you counted in — one, two, three, four — and launched into the second track.

It was bolder. Bright but still rough around the edges. Like a thunderstorm in a bottle. Your voice rode high over the chords, playful in places, raw in others.

And just as the chorus kicked in, your eyes swept over the crowd — instinct more than curiosity. A glance. A check.

But then—

You paused, just for a breath. Just for a flicker of a second too long.

Eyes.

Not the kind from someone far too enthusiastic or a passerby. Not drunk wonder or quiet admiration.

These ones were familiar.

Sharp. Amber. Curious in that infuriating, perpetually amused way you remembered all too well.

He looked exactly the same and completely different.

Fred Weasley.

Leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed, drink in hand, wearing that same cocky expression you’d spent seven years trying not to punch.

Your fingers didn’t falter on the strings — too trained for that — but something in your chest skipped.

You looked away.

Pretended not to see him.

Pretended that your voice didn’t shift slightly in tone as you sang the next verse. That your mouth didn’t curve into something a little sharper. A little more smug. As if to say: Yeah, I see you. And yes, I’m still impossible to ignore.

Because if Fred Weasley was here — listening — you’d be damned if you let him think it meant anything at all.

The third song hit like a heartbeat — fast, insistent, tangled with something half-feral and wholly yours. You pushed your voice to the edge, let the bass growl beneath your fingertips, and didn’t dare tame a single second of it.

By the end of it, your cheeks were flushed, hair wild from where you’d tossed it out of your face mid-verse, and the pub was on their feet.

You hopped down from the stool with a crooked grin, letting the strap of your bass fall from your shoulder, and raised a hand in farewell.

“Alright,” you said, breathless and glowing, “I’ll be back in five.”

That got you a cheer — more than one, actually. Tom just nodded his thanks and started fiddling with his pedals while you weaved your way toward the bar, your pulse still racing and your boots barely making a sound on the wooden floor.

Madam Rosmerta greeted you with a knowing look and a glass already in hand.

“On the house,” she said with a wink, sliding it toward you. “It’s great to see you, darling girl.”

You huffed a laugh and took the glass, cooling your flushed fingers against the rim. “It's good to see you too, Madam Rosmerta.”

She chuckled, wiping down a section of the bar with a well-worn cloth. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but… you’ve mellowed.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Mellowed? That’s rich, coming from the woman who once banned me for a month after I tried to crowd-surf.”

“You knocked over twelve chairs, spilled three pitchers of mead, and somehow managed to get your entire skirt caught on the chandelier.”

“And yet,” you grinned, “I stuck the landing.”

Rosmerta sighed, though her smile betrayed her fondness. “You were an absolute menace back then. Always dragging that poor Hufflepuff girl into your schemes and trying to convince me that the firewhisky was for ‘advanced Potions testing.’”

“Wasn’t it?” you said, feigning innocence.

She snorted. “What it was,” she said, “was trouble wrapped in charm with enough eyeliner to warrant a restraining order. But…”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough so only you could hear, “I still like you more than the rest of the bands that come through here..”

You grinned at that. 

“And I’m sure the lads here like you just as much. Even the ones who claim to hate you.”

You were about to quip back when you felt it.

That unmistakable weight of someone stepping up beside you — the shift of air, the heat of presence, the subtle way conversation seems to hush in a three-foot radius. You didn’t have to look.

You knew.

So you didn’t turn right away.

Didn’t need to.

There was a warmth that pooled around Fred Weasley like a gravitational pull — a static charge in the air, buzzing with every unspoken insult you ever threw at each other. Every stolen glance. Every hallway shout. Every detention.

You swirled your drink idly, trying not to look too pleased with yourself.

“Funny,” you said lightly, without turning your head, “you’d think if someone hated me as much as he claimed, he wouldn’t follow me to bars after five years.”

Fred’s voice came low, teasing. “You’d think someone who called me ‘a pestilence in human form’ would be thrilled to see I haven’t changed.”

You turned then, slowly, deliberately — one eyebrow arched, your mouth quirking at the edge.

“You haven’t,” you said dryly. “Still cocky. Still infuriating.”

His smile was infuriatingly smug. “Still sharp-tongued. Still showing off.”

“Still right,” you added, and took another sip, letting the silence stretch — but not awkward. Just… full. Like static right before lightning.

Fred leaned on the bar, forearms crossed, eyes gleaming like he knew exactly what he was doing. You looked at him then. This older and broader version of the boy you knew at Hogwarts. Still annoyingly handsome, still sporting that same crooked grin. Same spark behind his eyes. Except now, it was tempered with something quieter. Wiser, maybe.

“So,” he said, glancing toward the stage, “was that third song about me?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” he said, grinning. “You sing like someone who’s been trying not to think about me.”

“I” you said, making it a point to emphasize your words, “sing like someone who didn’t think about you at all, Weasley.”

He leaned in, close enough to smell the faint sweetness of Rosmerta’s buttered rum on your breath.

“Liar.”

You rolled your eyes — and laughed, despite yourself. There it was again. That tug-of-war. That tug-of-something.

Madam Rosmerta passed behind the bar again, smirking as she caught the look you were giving each other.

“Well,” she said, “this is just like old times.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Fred asked, his voice laced with irony.

Before you could volley something clever back — maybe something sharp enough to make him flinch — you felt a familiar hand tap lightly against your shoulder.

Tom.

Silent, steady Tom.

“Ready to go on again?” he asked, his voice soft, even.

You didn’t turn around.

Not right away.

Because your eyes were still on Fred.

He hadn’t moved, but his posture had shifted — straighter, jaw tight, like he wasn’t used to someone else interrupting his sparring matches with you.

You just nodded. “Yeah. Just about.”

Tom gave a small nod in return, always respectful of your pacing. He didn’t mind being background noise when it wasn’t his verse.

Madam Rosmerta, ever the hostess, slid a butterbeer toward him as he stepped fully into view.

“On the house,” she said. “For putting up with this one.”

Tom chuckled — a low, easy sound — and lifted the bottle with a grateful, “Cheers.”

You gave Fred a passing glance as you turned back toward the stage — just a glance, but it was lethal. Not gloating. Not cold. Just assured. Like you knew exactly what he’d be thinking as you walked away.

And maybe you wanted him to think it.

The crowd stirred again as you approached the mic, bass slung back over your shoulder like a second spine. Tom adjusted his pedals, and you tugged the cord through your fingers, cracking your neck once before lifting the mic with the same ease as someone lighting a cigarette.

“Alright,” you said, breath still a little uneven but voice cool as hell, “I hope you’ve all got your second wind, because we’re not easing back in.”

The pub answered with whistles and cheers.

You twisted a few knobs on your amp, ran a hand through your tangled hair, and added, “It’s good to be back. Missed the rain. Missed the accents. Missed Madam Rosmerta’s judgmental eyebrows.”

That got a good laugh — even a few raised glasses.

“This next one, is about gravitational pulls,” you spoke into the mic as you adjusted your strap. “The ones who seem too hard to ignore, even when you know they’re bound to end up in disaster.”

Tom struck the first chord — a bright, urgent sound that cut through the room like sunlight. You joined in right after, your bass thrumming loud and low in your hands.

“It’s called Regret Me.”

And you were alive again.

All sharp hips and sharp edges, fire behind the eyes, voice like you’d torn it from the sky and drank it whole. You weren’t trying to be captivating — that was the secret. You just were. There was no artifice in it. No performance. Just you. Wild and beautiful and unflinching.

Halfway through the song, you let your head toss back, laughing into a scream, your fingers never faltering. You danced like you had nothing left to lose, like you’d already lost it and built something better in its place.

And somewhere near the back — barely visible through the haze of moving bodies and clinking glasses — Fred Weasley watched you like you were some kind of revelation.

Like he was starting to realize that maybe — just maybe — he’d been wrong about you this whole damn time.

And worse?

He didn’t want to be right.

The set ended in a rush of applause and lifted pints, your fingers tingling from the strings, your voice deliciously raw. You let the final note ring out, breathing heavy, chest heaving like you'd just run a marathon barefoot.

You let your arm fall loosely at your side. “That’s us, for tonight. You’ve been decent. Sort of.”

That got a cheer. And a boo. You grinned.

Tom offered the room a small bow — elegant, understated, utterly unimpressed by the chaos — and started unplugging cables like it was any other Thursday.

You leaned your bass against the back wall, letting your muscles cool, then crouched to start coiling cords with that same sharp, absent-minded focus you always had post-show. The noise in the pub dulled into background hum, the kind you could breathe in and feel settle in your ribs. Music resumed from the enchanted loudspeakers.

Tom was quiet beside you — but then, when wasn’t he?

Until he wasn’t.

“You gonna tell me what that was about,” he said casually, “or do I get to guess?”

You glanced up. He was still wrapping his cables, calm as ever, but one eyebrow was raised just enough to say I’m onto you.

You blinked. “What was what about?”

He snorted. “The redhead.”

Your stomach tensed, but your tone didn’t shift. “Who?”

Tom gave you a look. The kind that said don’t insult my intelligence.

“Oh,” you said flatly. “That. Him.”

“That him,” Tom echoed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You gonna tell me, or should I come up with my own conclusions? Did you kiss the guy senseless in a bathroom too?”

You laughed — surprised, but not annoyed. “God, no. He’s not… that.”

Tom let the silence stretch, waiting.

You sighed, tugged a hand through your hair, and muttered, “Fred Weasley. Old classmate. Gryffindor. We couldn’t stand each other at Hogwarts.”

Tom nodded like he’d just been handed a missing puzzle piece. “Mm.”

“And,” you added, shoving a looped cable into your bag with maybe a bit too much force, “I still can’t stand him. So. There’s that.”

Tom let that hang in the air, then looked at you slowly.

“That,” he said, voice mild, “is not what it looked like from up here.”

You whipped a towel off your amp and flung it at his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, catching it one-handed. “I’m just saying — if that was hatred, maybe I need to start fighting with people more often.”

“Tom,” you warned, though you were already grinning. “I’ll whip you with a cable.”

“I’m flattered,” he deadpanned, straightening up. “But I think he’s the one you want to maim.”

“I might.”

“You might not.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “He’s an arrogant little devil. Thought he knew me just because we shared a corridor for a few years. Thought I was shallow.”

Tom hummed. “So he was wrong.”

“Of course he was wrong.”

“And now?”

You glanced back over your shoulder.

Fred wasn’t there anymore.

Just the empty space where he’d been standing.

You swallowed. “Now, I don’t know.”

Tom nodded, slung his bag over his shoulder, and offered no further comment.

Because that’s how he was.

Just present enough to make you think, but not enough to push.

You liked that about him.

You liked this band, this version of yourself — loud, free, wild, untamed.

And for a second, as you turned back toward the door, you wondered what the hell Fred Weasley had seen in you tonight that he hadn’t seen back then.

The pub was still buzzing when you stepped out.

It always was after a set — alive with drunk praise and clinking glasses and the hum of lingering bass in the walls — but you needed air. Something sharp and quiet and real.

Outside, the summer night wrapped around you like a too-warm blanket. The kind that stuck to your skin. Your hair was still damp at the roots, cheeks flushed, fingers twitching from the last chords.

You lit a cigarette. Held it between two fingers like an afterthought. Exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the night like a ghost that had nowhere else to go.

“Nasty habit you’ve picked up,” a voice rang out from a few steps in front of you.

Once again, you didn’t have to look. You would’ve recognized the arrogant tone the words came wrapped in wherever you went.

Instead, you smirked sardonically as you took another drag of your cigarette and took your time exhaling it.

“You’re one to talk.”

Fred Weasley stood across from you now, leaning against the wall opposite like he owned it. A cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling around his cheekbone.

He looked… annoyingly good in the amber light of the lantern above the door. All loose limbs and lazy posture and eyes that tracked you like a storm rolling in.

“I quit,” he said casually, tapping ash onto the cobblestones.

You raised a brow. “Is that right?”

He shrugged. “Except for when I don’t.”

That got a laugh out of you — quiet, dry. With one hand, you coiled your hair around it, pining it up temporarily, the sticky warmth of summer not quite helping you cool down after the set.

“Well,” you said, exhaling toward the sky, “I’ve still got a few years to catch up to you. Mortality-wise, I mean.”

Fred scoffed through a grin. “Don’t rush. There’s enough of me to go around for a long time.”

“Statistically speaking,” you said, nodding at his cigarette, “you’re at least a decade closer to the grave than I am.”

He grinned. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

“You want flattery?” you said, flicking ash to the side. “Go talk to your reflection.”

Fred leaned his head back against the brick, cigarette dangling from his lips as he watched you. Not mocking. Not smirking, exactly. Just… watching.

“You always this charming after a set?”

You looked at him, finally. “Only when I’m forced to make conversation with past mistakes.”

“Ouch,” he said, lazily pressing a hand to his chest. “Right in the ego.”

“You’ve got enough of it to spare.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you like he was trying to piece something together that didn’t quite fit the memory he had of you. 

He was lit up by the pub's glow — not fully in it, but haloed by it. That ginger hair caught in gold, freckles like something God left behind on purpose. And his eyes. Always watching.

“So,” he said, eyes still on you, “Tom?”

He said his name almost involuntarily. As if he didn’t want you to remember him.

You took a final drag of your cigarette before stubbing it out on the stone.

“Back at the hotel.”

Fred tried for nonchalance. Tried hard. Failed harder.

“Doesn’t seem very… boyfriend-like.”

You smirked.

“He’s not.”

Fred blinked.

“Oh.”

You stepped away from the wall, casually brushing ash from your fingers.

“You don’t seem disappointed.”

Fred’s mouth quirked at the corner — that infuriating half-smile of his. The one that used to get him out of detentions. The one that used to make you want to hex him in the corridor.

And maybe kiss him, once or twice. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

“Just thinking…”

“Yeah,” you said, readjusting the strap of your gig bag around your shoulder. “About time.”

You turned, meaning to go — meaning to put an end to whatever this almost-conversation was becoming — when you heard his voice again.

“Wait.”

Footsteps behind you. A rustle of his jacket. Then:

“I’ll walk you.”

You paused. Glanced at him over your shoulder.

He shrugged, flicking the last of his cigarette onto the cobblestones and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. “It’s late. You’re not from around here anymore. And I’ve got… ten years on you, apparently. Gotta make myself useful while I’m still alive.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“This isn’t a ploy to get me to compliment you, is it?”

Fred held up both hands in mock innocence. “Perish the thought.”

You hesitated — just for a second. The safe answer was no. The smart answer was no.

But something about the night — the heat, the smoke, the aftertaste of adrenaline still in your throat — made you want to be reckless. Just a little.

“…Fine,” you said, brushing down your dress. “But if you get weird halfway there, I’m stunning you and leaving your body in the alley.”

Fred grinned, already stepping in beside you. “Wouldn’t be the worst way I’ve ended a night.”

You made a sound deep in your throat. “Charming.”

“I try.”

You didn’t look at him as you turned the corner together, boots clicking on the cobblestones, but you knew he was watching.

You walked in silence for a bit. 

Then he took out another cigarette and lit it. He offered you the first drag, which you took.

He took a drag himself before speaking again: “I liked that thing you said back there.”

You peered up at him with a raised eyebrow, “I say a lot of things.”

He looked over at you, eyes sharp even in the soft dark. “The one about gravitational pulls.”

You chuckled and dragged your tongue against the side of your mouth. “Was there perhaps any other thing you liked? Maybe my songs?”

He smiled and exhaled smoke. “I thought that was obvious.”

You stopped walking again.

Right at the foot of the hotel steps. Lantern light spilled golden across the stone, catching in your hair, slipping over your collarbones. You turned to face him fully.

“Not to me,” you said, voice low. “With you, I never know when you're being serious.”

Fred didn’t smile this time. He just looked at you — all the amusement drained out of him like wine from a shattered glass.

Then, after a beat:

“I liked all of them,” he said, cigarette balanced between two fingers, forgotten. “Every damn one. Even the ones I knew were about me.”

Your breath snagged, but your voice remained cool. “You’re being a bit too confident, don’t you think Weasley–”

He took a step closer. His voice dropped.

“I liked the one where you dragged someone’s name like a blade. I liked the one that started off sweet and then turned mean halfway through the chorus. I liked the one with the break in your voice that you didn’t bother to hide.”

He tilted his head, watching your reaction.

“I liked the way your hands looked wrapped around that bass.”

Another step closer. Barely a breath between you now.

“I liked the way you looked at the mic before you started singing, it reminded me of how you used to look at me.”

You swallowed hard. His words were coming too fast, too sure — like he’d been waiting to say them for years and now couldn’t stop.

“And I liked,” he said, voice rough now, “that no one in that room got to see the version of you I did. I liked that despite sharing yourself with the world, there’s still a version of you that’s only mine.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, sharp and traitorous.

Something in your stirred. Anger, maybe. Excitement perhaps. Because despite the many years you had known Fred Weasley, there were a lot of things you would have described yourself as, but his was never one of them. 

Then again, you supposed it was true. You were as much his as he was yours. What with all the parts of yourselves you had given away in trying to bring the other down.

He leaned in, cigarette still in his hand. Smoke curled up between you.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “You’re laying it on a bit thick.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “You asked.”

The air snapped tight between you.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t back away.

Instead, in one smooth, unhurried motion, you reached for the cigarette in his hand — but didn’t take it. You guided his hand up instead, pressing it to your lips. You made it a purpose to pout your lips when you did, leaving a kiss mark behind on his fingers.

Fred’s breath hitched.

You held his gaze as you took a slow drag, the paper crackling softly between your lips. Then you lowered his hand again — not breaking eye contact — and exhaled, deliberately, directly into his mouth. 

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

When he spoke, his voice was barely a rasp.

“Still think I’m joking?”

Your mouth curved — not into a smile, exactly. Something darker. Something more dangerous.

“I think you want something you shouldn’t.”

Fred leaned in — not quite kissing you, just letting your lips brush, ghostlike.

“So do you.”

And Merlin help you — you did.

Because this wasn’t softness. This wasn’t nostalgia. This was raw want wrapped in old wounds and older habits.

And you both knew it.

For a second, you stood like that — both held hostage by whatever wicked thing had passed between your mouths and the smoke, whatever thread you’d both pretended not to feel for years.

Then he tilted his head, voice just above a whisper.

“What was it you said…?” His fingers brushed your wrist — barely. “About gravitational pulls?”

You raised a brow, feigning innocence. “You really want me to quote myself?”

“Humor me,” he said, his mouth nearly at your jaw now.

You paused, lips parted. The smirk that rose wasn’t kind. Wasn’t sweet.

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this whole time?”

“It just stuck. Seemed familiar,” he said as you tilted your head up at him, your lips brushing at the motion.

“Should,” you said. “You’re the blueprint.”

He exhaled a soft, humorless laugh. You’d drawn blood with that one. Good.

His hand ghosted up your arm, stopping just short of your jaw — not quite touching, but so close it made your spine tighten.

Then — finally — something snapped.

He kissed you.

Not soft. Not sweet. Like a line breaking. Like something he’d sunk his teeth into and couldn’t let go of.

And you kissed him right back.

There was no room for grace in it. No space for second thoughts. Just heat, sharp and thick, teeth and smoke and breath. One of his hands caught your waist — not hard, not gentle — the kind of touch that says I won’t hold you here, but I could.

You let it happen. Let yourself sink into the chaos for half a second.

But only that.

Then you pulled back.

Not far — your lips still brushed his when you spoke, breath hot against his skin.

“Thanks for the walk.”

Fred blinked, dazed. “What—?”

He blinked, breathless and stunned, lips parted in something just shy of disbelief.

Fred looked at you like you’d just torn the earth out from under him. “You’re joking.”

You smiled — just barely. “Goodnight, Weasley.”

And with that, you slipped inside the hotel. One hand on the door, not looking back.

Leaving him outside.

Alone.

Mouth tingling. Hands aching. Heart doing something it hadn’t done in years.

He stood there a long time, cigarette smoldering in his fingers, watching the door like it might open again.

It didn’t.

You were gone.

Again.

And he wanted you more than he had any right to.

“Bloody hell.”

The corridor was dim, lined with peeling floral wallpaper and the scent of old wood and lemon polish. Your boots muffled slightly against the worn carpet as you walked — slow, languid, like your body still hummed with leftover static from the kiss.

From the whole night, really.

You touched your lips once as you walked. Just a quick brush of your fingers, like checking if the heat was still there.

It was.

Your pulse kicked behind your ribs — not frenzied, but alert. Alive.

You didn’t regret it.

Not the kiss. Not the teasing. Not the smoke, or the song, or the way he’d looked at you like you were something sharp he wanted to bleed on, again and again.

You reached the door to your room and slid the keycard in with one smooth movement, mouth still curled at the corners in something like a secret.

The lock clicked open.

By the time you pushed the hotel room door open, you were practically humming with yourself.

The room was warm — the air smelled like leftover takeout and faint cologne, and the kitchen light was on.

Tom was standing by the sink.

Tall. Sharp-jawed. Hair still damp from a shower, one hand wrapped around a glass of water. He didn’t look surprised to see you, but his expression shifted when he really looked at you.

At your swollen mouth.

Your flushed skin.

He set the glass down slowly.

“I knew it,” he said, voice calm. Measured. A little amused. “That didn’t seem like hatred to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, tone way too quick to sound innocent. Still, you didn’t bother hiding the grin adorning your lips.

Tom took a sip of his tea. “He was about ready to combust —and not from anger.”

You didn’t respond — which only made your grin return, twice as dangerous.

You took a slow sip of water and leaned against the counter opposite him.

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m many things,” Tom said, “but delusional isn’t one of them. That man was about ready to commit crimes.”

You snorted despite yourself.

He nodded, eyes gleaming. “Crimes involving your dress and the nearest flat surface.”

“Tom.”

You threw a dish towel at his face. He caught it easily, laughing.

Still, he watched you over the rim of his glass — that perceptive glint in his eye, the one that had always made him dangerous in his own right.

“I mean,” he said lightly, tossing the towel onto the counter, “if I’d been him, I wouldn’t have let you get away that easy.”

You turned your back to him and opened the fridge just to have something to do with your hands.

“Well,” you said, grabbing the leftover water bottle and cracking it open, “maybe that’s what makes you different.”

He snorted. “Please. If he’d followed you in here, I’d be sleeping in the hallway.”

You gave him a sideways glance, amused. “Is that a threat or an offer?”

He shrugged. “Depends on how loud you were planning on being.”

You rolled your eyes, but the laugh you let out was warm and unguarded. The kind that had a little softness behind it, even as you tried to keep your composure.

Tom didn’t press further. Just walked past you with his tea. He always knew when to stop — when to let you sit in your own feelings without poking at it.

“You’re glowing, by the way,” he added before disappearing down the hall.

“Shut up,” you called after him, cheeks heating.

The door clicked behind him.

You were alone again.

You padded back toward the bedroom, peeling off your earrings and dropping them on the bedside table. Your skin still buzzed beneath your collarbones, like his hands had left a mark.

You stretched out on the bed, arms above your head, staring at the ceiling.

You could still feel Fred’s breath against your mouth. His voice, husky and dark, asking you to repeat your own words like a dare. His hand on your waist — unsure of whether to pull you closer or let you go.

You’d taken the decision away from him.

And for now — that was enough.

Let him sit with it. Let him want.

You smiled to yourself as you closed your eyes.

Let him be the one lying awake tonight.

The second show was louder.

Not in sound, but in presence.

The pub swelled with bodies — some familiar, some new — but none of them mattered, not really. Not when you spotted him again, standing near the back wall like he’d been carved from it.

Fred Weasley.

Same boots. Same smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret he wouldn’t share.

He didn’t say anything. Not when you caught his eye before the first song. Not when you walked past him with your bass slung low and your throat tight with adrenaline.

But he watched. Like he couldn’t not.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You forced yourself to ignore the shiver that went up your spine every time he looked at you. Because god knows he was looking. Looking at you like you were something to be devoured.

And he didn’t blink once.

When the set ended, you turned to start packing cables and pedals. When you looked up again, he was already gone.

The third night, he brought someone.

A girl. Tall, pretty. Loud laugh.

You noticed her first — maybe because that laugh rang sharp through the pub — and then you saw him. Standing beside her, hand in his pocket, posture lazy and unreadable.

You felt something settle low in your chest. You didn’t like it.

Jealousy didn’t suit you, and you weren’t wearing it well.

But it twisted inside you anyway.

You didn’t speak to him. Didn’t look at him, not until the lights dimmed and the first chord was struck. Then, like instinct, your gaze found his again — threading across the crowd like a wire pulled taut.

And he was already looking.

The girl said something. He didn’t answer.

You could’ve laughed.

You played Regret Me like your life depended on it.

You leaned into the mic and sang the bridge like a threat, eyes locked on his, and for one staggering second you swore — swore — he looked angry. 

You finished the set drenched in sweat and applause. But by the time you got backstage, he was gone again.

No trace. No note.

Only the ghost of a stare that hadn’t let go of you all night.

By the fourth night, it had become a ritual.

He came alone this time.

Same spot. Back wall. Arms crossed.

He didn’t move when you walked in. Didn’t nod, didn’t smile. Just stared like he was daring you to break first.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

The set was tight. Hot. Electric.

Your fingers flew. Your voice cracked in all the right places. Your feet spun and your hips swayed.

He didn’t look away.

Not for a single second.

And when the last chord rang out, the applause washed over you like static. You turned your back to the crowd, breath high in your chest. You peeled your bass off and rolled your neck and counted to three.

But when you turned back toward the floor…

He was gone again.

Just like before.

Like smoke.

Or gravity.

Or the kind of mistake you keep making, even when you know better.

The alley behind the Three Broomsticks was the kind of dark that swallowed things.

Sound. Smoke. Good sense.

The first half of the set had gone fine — tight harmonies, loose banter, a crowd that was drunk enough to dance but sober enough to care — but none of it mattered. Not with him standing there. Again. Same spot. Same expression. Same war waging in the depth of his gaze.

You’d made it two songs in before your fingers started to tremble on the strings.

Tom noticed. Of course he did.

You’d mumbled something about needing air and slipped through the back door before he could talk you out of it. Which, of course, he didn’t even try. Just raised his eyebrows and said something about actions and consequences that you didn’t quite catch. 

After that you decided to let him fend off the girls who had been staring at him all set for himself. 

The back alley was humid, thick with the smell of damp stone and something fried from next door.

You lit your cigarette with practiced fingers and dragged deep.

Exhaled.

Didn’t breathe again for a second.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

It was like a game of cat and mouse at this point. You did not expect him to follow you here. Especially since you’d left the pub to escape him.

“Not alone anymore, am I?”

You took another drag.

Fred moved closer.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice low.

You met his eyes. “You’ve been slipping out like a ghost before I can even unplug my amp.”

He tilted his head like he was studying you — or trying not to say something he shouldn’t.

“That’s not avoiding,” he murmured. “That’s restraint.”

You took another drag of your cigarette just to busy your hands. Flicked ash toward the gutter. “How’s that going for you?”

“Badly.”

He stepped closer.

The wall behind you stayed solid and cold at your back, but everything else — the air, your skin, the space between your mouths — pulsed with heat. Thick and slow and deliberate, like the night had conspired to bring this moment back from the dead.

“Every night I come here,” he said, voice rough around the edges, “I tell myself I won’t stay long.”

You exhaled smoke through your nose. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he echoed. “You go up there and sing like you’ve got blades in your throat, and you look right at me when you do it.”

You didn’t deny it.

He kept going.

“You think I don’t know what those songs are about?”

You dropped your cigarette and ground it out with your heel.

“I think,” you said slowly, eyes locked on his, “you know exactly what they’re about. And you’re still standing here.”

Fred took one final step — and suddenly his hand was next to your head again, braced against the wall. Not touching you, not yet, but the intent was obvious. You could feel it on your skin like pressure from a storm front.

“I’ve got a theory,” he said.

“Lucky me.”

“I think you want me to lose it.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Lose what, exactly?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence cracked under its own weight — not empty, but dense, with the things neither of you were pretending to ignore anymore.

Your hand twitched at your side. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked once — to your mouth, back to your eyes, then lower still.

“Fred.”

You didn’t mean to say it like that — half a warning, half an invocation. But it came out like that anyway. A slip.

He closed the distance in one breath.

This time, the kiss wasn’t desperate or sudden — it was intentional. It was a slow, precise collision of mouths, built from four days of silence and seven years of damage. His hand found your waist, dragging you forward until your chest pressed to his, and the kiss deepened with a kind of greedy, electric inevitability.

Your hands threaded into his coat like you might drag him into you if physics would allow it.

He bit your lip — soft, quick, just enough for your breath to hitch — and then kissed you again like he needed to erase the space between every word you hadn’t said to each other.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Long enough that your cigarette had burned cold on the ground. Long enough that your pulse was a steady drumbeat behind your ribs.

When you finally pulled away, it was only far enough to speak.

Your voice was lower now. Raw.

“I have to go back in.”

Fred didn’t move. His fingers flexed against your hip like he didn’t trust himself to let go yet.

“I know.”

But he didn’t take his hand away.

Instead, he looked at you with a kind of calm intensity that made your stomach turn over.

“Find me after,” he said. Not a question.

You raised your chin. “What if I don’t?”

His hand slid just slightly — enough to make your breath catch — but his expression didn’t change.

“You will.”

You hated that he was right.

Still, you said, “Say please.”

Fred’s mouth twitched — the faintest ghost of a smile, but there was nothing sweet about it.

He leaned in again, lips brushing your jaw.

“Please.”

You closed your eyes.

Then you pulled back, finally, reluctantly.

“I’ll find you.”

You left him there in the alley, mouth swollen, hair mussed, watching you like a man who’d just made a mistake he had every intention of making again.

Inside, the bar was louder than before. Heat and sweat and music and laughter. It felt like stepping into a completely different world — one where you hadn’t just let Fred Weasley kiss you like that.

Tom was on stage, half-tuning his guitar, half-fending off a witch in a low-cut dress who looked very interested in his chord structure.

You stepped up beside him, and he gave you a quick once-over.

“You look like you got hit by a bus,” he said dryly.

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. “I feel great.”

He rolled his eyes before leaning over the mic. “Second set,” he called lazily to the room, “back by popular demand. And possibly spite.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

But you barely heard it.

Fred wasn’t in his usual spot.

He wasn’t anywhere you could see.

That did something to your chest — something you didn’t have time to untangle before the lights dimmed again and you were left with only your fingers, your voice, and the last words he’d whispered against your skin.

You found your place.

And played like you meant to set the room on fire.

You found him.

Just like you said you would.

The crowd thinned quicker tonight, like it somehow sensed that you weren’t in the mood to linger. A few claps on the back, a couple compliments slurred out through ale-thick mouths, and then it was just you and Tom packing up what was left of your set.

“I’m heading out,” he said as he slung his bag over one shoulder, arching a brow at your still-glowing skin. “Little walk. Clear my head.”

You gave him a look.

He smirked. “You don’t have to lie about where you’re going.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I’ll see you at the hotel.”

You leaned up, kissed his cheek—just enough to show you cared, not enough to ask questions.

“Don't wait up."

And then you turned the corner.

Fred was there, exactly where you'd hoped he’d be—leaning against the side of the building like he belonged to it. He looked up the second your boots scraped the stone.

You didn’t stop walking.

Neither did he.

You collided halfway, mouths already meeting before anyone could say a word, his hands in your hair, yours at his collar. There was no greeting, no hesitation, just a pent-up kind of need that had been boiling just under the surface for far too long.

By the time you were halfway back to his flat, you’d already fumbled through at least three alleyway detours and a deserted stairwell. His coat was hanging half off his shoulders. Your lipstick was gone. His neck had your teeth in it. Your pulse was ragged.

When you reached the building, your back hit the wall beside the door with a soft thud. Fred cursed under his breath, trying to keep it quiet, but your hands had found their way under his shirt and he was losing focus by the second.

“Give me—” he whispered, struggling with the key in the lock, “just—give me a minute.”

But you weren’t helping.

Not with your fingers undoing his belt like they had a vendetta. Not with your mouth dragging down the side of his jaw and your hips angled just right.

“You're not exactly making this easy,” he muttered, breath catching as your hand slid beneath the waistband of his jeans, slow and teasing and purposeful.

You smiled against his throat.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

Finally, the door gave. Fred shoved it open with a shoulder, guided you in with one hand at your waist. The flat was dim and quiet—the only light coming from under the door of what must’ve been George’s room.

You both froze.

Fred’s breath was hot against your cheek. “Quiet.”

You nodded, wide-eyed, biting your lip.

And then he took your hand, tugged you quickly down the hall. The second his bedroom door shut behind you, the restraint he’d been clinging to splintered completely.

He pushed you against the door—not rough, just firm, like he was afraid you’d vanish again if he didn’t hold you there. Your hands tangled in his hair as he kissed you, deep and consuming, like he was trying to memorize every piece of you all at once.

Fred tugged your jacket down your arms, your shirt up over your ribs, fingers pressing into the bare skin beneath. Your own hands found their way beneath his, nails scraping at the line of muscle there.

You moaned quietly into his mouth, and he hissed, low and desperate.

“Fuck,” he muttered, half a groan. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

“You started this,” you whispered, biting his lower lip before sucking it between your teeth. “You started this when you walked into that pub.”

He laughed—quiet, ragged. “Yeah. I know.”

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall back, watching as he stood over you, chest rising and falling too fast. His pupils were blown. His jaw tight. And you couldn’t stop smiling.

Not a soft one. Something sharper. Hungrier. Like you knew exactly what he was about to do, and you were daring him to do it.

“Still want that tea?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You hooked your finger into his belt loop, dragging him closer.

“I want you to shut up and take off your shirt.”

He did.

He touched you like he knew exactly where you’d break first — slow, calculated, like the burn was the point. Like he’d waited too long to tear through it all in a single motion. He wanted to feel it unravel. Thread by thread.

Your breath caught as he kissed his way down your neck, dragging the heat of his mouth just beneath your collarbone, the scruff of his jaw scratching gently at the more delicate skin there. It left you dizzy. Tingling. Caught between laughing and cursing him out.

You clawed at his back, fingertips trailing down the ridges of muscle, searching for something to hold onto. The room felt too small for your lungs — heat pressing down from all sides, soft sheets twisting beneath you, your skin already sticking to his.

Fred’s hands were everywhere. Hot. Steady. Possessive in that infuriatingly quiet way of his. Not sloppy, not impatient. Just present. Like he’d claimed the right to touch you and wasn’t in the mood to give it back.

Every move was deliberate.

He kissed the corner of your mouth like it mattered, dragged his fingers down the curve of your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. You arched into him without thinking. Maybe just to prove a point.

You should’ve been smug about it. Smug that Fred Weasley was the one unraveling now. That he was the one breathing hard. That his voice was shaking just a little when he whispered your name into the hollow of your throat.

But there was nothing smug about the way your body kept reacting.

How he turned something slow into something unbearable.

How he kissed the inside of your thigh and you actually whimpered, surprised by the way your own breath came undone. How his hand gripped the underside of your knee like he’d dreamed of it.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He already knew.

Because your legs had wrapped around his waist by then, your hands in his hair, your mouth parting again and again in quiet, breathless disbelief.

And when he finally moved — really moved — it wasn’t fast. But it was deep.

Final.

Like a claim.

You gasped and buried your face in his neck, not out of shyness, but because it was too much — the heat, the pressure, the fucking look he gave you when your hips shifted just so and his control snapped a little further. Like you were wrecking him in real time.

The bed creaked under you both, muffled and rhythmic, but neither of you noticed.

Because he was groaning against your skin now — raw, quiet, desperate. Saying things you couldn’t quite hear. Gripping your hips with hands that trembled, but didn’t stop.

And you were coming undone in waves.

Like a match catching slowly — spark, heat, burn — until you were arching, gasping, gripping him like the only thing that could anchor you was him.

He kissed you through it. Shaky. Greedy. Messy with need.

You didn’t realize you’d said his name again until he stilled over you, arms tense, his forehead pressed to yours, the weight of him pinning you exactly where you wanted to be.

You didn’t think he had more to give.

Not after that.

Not after the way he’d trembled against you, breath stuttering against your collarbone, hands curled so tightly around your thighs like he couldn’t bear to let go.

But then he looked at you.

And you knew.

Fred Weasley was greedy. For you. And maybe — just maybe — you were too far gone to deny him.

He slid down your body like he was worshipping a ruin. Like he wanted to leave a mark on every inch of the damage. You curled your fingers into his hair without thinking, tilting your head back against the pillow as his mouth found the hollow of your stomach.

You were already shaking when he got there. Already breathless.

The first press of his mouth made your hips jerk, made a sound catch in your throat — embarrassingly soft, embarrassingly helpless. He didn’t stop. He didn’t want you composed. He wanted you messy. Unguarded. His.

You gasped something — his name, a curse, a plea — and his fingers dug deeper into your thighs.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “what you do to me.”

And then he proved it.

Over and over.

Until the only thing you could cling to was the sound of your own breath and the heat of his mouth and the knowledge that nothing — no one — had ever touched you like this. Like you were a song he hadn’t quite finished writing. Like you were a problem he never wanted to solve.

Hours passed in fragments.

In sweat-slick limbs. In whispered names. In the creak of the bed and the hush of hands finding new places to hold onto. He took his time. But there was nothing gentle in it. Just intentional. Just hungry.

Fred moved with the kind of need that didn’t go away after once. Or twice.

By the time the sun threatened the window, your legs ached and your throat was sore from biting back every sound you weren’t brave enough to make.

You were lying on your side, your back pressed to his chest, your fingers curled around his forearm like an anchor. His breath was still a little uneven behind your ear.

He hadn’t fallen asleep.

Neither had you.

And that was the worst part.

Because you wanted to.

But you both knew the second your eyes closed, you’d wake up in a different moment. You’d try to name it. To box it up. To make it make sense.

But for now you let yourself stay.

Warm. Spent. Marked.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin — like a promise or a warning. You didn’t ask which. Not yet.

And outside, the city slept.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you allowed yourself to be pulled by gravity.

[ashthesalamipiece]

heyy can i request a bakugo x reader who have been dating for around 2 years but reader still isnt over her ex and turns out her new boss is her ex so katsuki like gives her choice to choose like him or her ex because she is not in a good place? And she does move on from her ex in the end?

"What We Carry"

Bakugou x Reader | Angst + Comfort | Long One-Shot

You weren’t supposed to feel this way—not after two years.

You and Katsuki had something real. Grounded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was stable, honest, passionate. You loved him… didn’t you?

But everything blurred the day you stepped into your new job and locked eyes with the one person you never thought you’d see again.

Your ex.

The one that shattered you. The one you never got closure from. The one you pretended didn’t still haunt your thoughts on sleepless nights.

And now, they were your new boss.

---

The first week, you tried to play it cool. Pretend it was nothing. You were older now, stronger. You had Bakugou. But your stomach twisted every time you heard your ex's voice in meetings or felt their gaze linger just a moment too long.

You didn't tell Katsuki right away.

He was patient with your moods. He brushed your hair away from your face when you stared too long at nothing. He didn’t push when your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

But he noticed.

“Oi.”

His voice broke through your thoughts one night. You were curled up on the couch, staring at a half-finished glass of wine. He stood in the doorway, towel slung over his shoulders from his shower, eyes fixed on you like a storm about to break.

“You gonna tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on, or am I supposed to keep guessin’?”

You blinked. “It’s nothing—”

“Bullshit.”

There it was. That fire. That honesty. You used to find comfort in it.

You swallowed. “It’s my boss. My new one. It’s... my ex.”

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t curse or punch a wall. He just stared.

“I see.”

You waited for the explosion. The anger. But what came was worse—quiet.

“For how long?”

“A few weeks.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

He scoffed, turning away for a moment like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “That ain’t why. You didn’t wanna talk about it ‘cause you’re not over them.”

Silence.

You couldn’t deny it.

Bakugou turned back to you, voice low but raw. “You know what pisses me off? Not that they’re around. Not even that they’re your boss. What pisses me off is that I’ve been here—two fucking years—and part of you is still stuck back there.”

“I’m trying,” you whispered, ashamed. “I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna be your goddamn rebound two years in.”

You looked up, eyes wide. “You’re not.”

“Then choose me. Right now. Choose us. Or don’t. But I’m not standing around while you figure out if you wanna be in this or not.”

You couldn’t speak. Tears welled in your eyes, but he didn’t try to comfort you. He walked out of the room, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

---

The days after were heavy.

Bakugou gave you space. He didn’t leave, but he didn’t pull you close like he used to. He needed to know where you stood, and you didn’t even know how to answer that yet.

At work, your ex was cordial. Too polite. Like they knew they still lived rent-free in your mind. Every time they smiled at you in the hallway, your chest squeezed with a strange mix of guilt and regret.

But the more you saw them, the more the illusion began to crack.

They weren’t who you remembered. Not anymore. Or maybe they never were. You realized it wasn’t them you missed. It was the idea. The what-if. The closure you never got.

But you didn’t need it now.

Because you had someone waiting—hoping—that you’d finally look forward, not back.

---

One night, you came home late.

Bakugou was in the kitchen, quietly chopping vegetables. He didn’t look up when you walked in.

“I saw them today,” you said. “I mean... I really saw them. Not the memory. Just a person. A stranger who used to know me.”

He kept slicing.

“I kept thinking I never got closure. But I don’t need it from them.”

He froze.

You stepped closer, voice soft but clear.

“I need to close that chapter myself. Because I already have something better. Someone who’s real. Who’s here. Who never left, even when I gave him every reason to.”

Bakugou slowly turned. His eyes found yours—intense, unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” you said, eyes glistening. “For making you feel like an option. You never were. I just... I needed to stop running from my past to really see what I have.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, took your face in his hands, and stared like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“Don’t you ever lie to me again,” he muttered, forehead against yours. “Not about this. Not about how you feel.”

“I won’t.”

“I love you, you idiot.”

You laughed softly, tears falling. “I love you, Katsuki.”

He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. You held on like your life depended on it.

Because this time, you weren’t letting go.

Not for a ghost.

Not for the past.

Not for anything.

[retireddaddyric]

RUINED CANVAS

(PAINTING PALETTE part II)

Synopsis: (part 2 of 4) Fem reader discovers a heartbreaking truth about Daniel and she grows cold. Reader’s brother starts suspecting, the breaking point hits.

Warnings: overhearing, cold behavior, rage, heartbreak, pain, pride.

Notes: this is all fiction. english is not my first language, there will be more parts, share thoughts and comments, even in private if you’re shy!

The second the front door clicks open, my heart drops.

Not metaphorically, like, I feel it. Like gravity just remembered it owed me something and came back to collect.

Daniel’s still tangled to me.

We’re still in my brother’s sheets.

And I can hear the keys hit the ceramic bowl by the door like this is just a regular night.

It isn’t.

“Shit,” I whisper, breath catching in my throat. “Daniel—get off—”

“I know, I know—fuck—” He get out of bed fast, too fast, and I almost whimper from the loss. He looks around wildly, grabs his boxers from the floor. “Where’s my—your sweater—god, where the fuck—”

I don’t answer. I’m already crawling out from under him, legs wobbling. I spot my underwear halfway across the room, curse under my breath, and settle for grabbing Mick’s hoodie from the chair instead. It swallows me whole.

We look at each other, half-dressed, breathless, like idiots caught doing something we never should’ve started.

Then we hear him.

“Dan man? That you?”

Of course it is.

Daniel’s the first out of the bedroom. He walks into the hallway trying to look casual, voice thick but calm. “Yeah, man. Just me.”

“Oh shit,” Mick calls from the kitchen. “Didn’t know you were still here. I thought you went out.”

I stand in the hallway like a ghost. Not sure if I should follow or disappear through the drywall. My thighs are still sticky. My heart’s still racing. I can smell Daniel on my skin.

“Didn’t end up going,” Daniel says. “Got a little sidetracked.”

He looks over at me briefly, just once, and I know exactly what he’s remembering.

I pull the hoodie tighter around my body and walk into the kitchen like I didn’t just have the best sex of my life with my brother’s best friend in my brother’s bed.

“Hey,” I say, voice tight.

Mick looks up from the fridge and frowns slightly. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah. I—uh. Crashed. Got in late.” I clear my throat. “Hope that’s okay.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. We’ve got enough space.”

There’s a beat of silence. Daniel opens the cabinet too hard and pretends to be interested in the tea selection.

“Actually,” Mick says, “I was gonna grab ramen with Lisa tonight, but she bailed, so I’m just gonna crash here. You cool with that?”

Crash here.

He means his apartment.

With both of us.

At the same time.

“Totally,” I lie. “I’ve got some work to finish anyway.”

I feel Daniel’s eyes on me. I don’t look back.

It’s awkward. Of course it is.

We all sit on the couch, way too sober, with a random movie playing in the background that none of us are actually watching. Mick is halfway through some shitty noodle cup and Daniel is trying not to look like he wants to touch me again. I want him to. I want to pretend it’s just us again. But that window closed the moment the door opened.

The next morning, I’m alone in the kitchen when Mick walks in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, yawning like it’s any normal day. He grabs the coffee pot, pours, and leans on the counter next to me. “You and Daniel catch up last night?”

My hand tightens around the mug. “Yeah. A bit.”

“Haven’t seen him this chill in a while,” he says. “Kinda surprised he’s even around. Last time we talked, he said he was flying in to maybe meet up with Emilia.”

The name hits me like a slap. I blink. “Emilia?”

He nods, completely unaware of the way my chest cracks wide open. “His ex. They’ve been talking again, I think. Old flame or whatever.”

I nod slowly. Swallow. “Oh,” I say, like it means nothing.

Like I didn’t let him inside me just hours ago.

Like I didn’t think, even for a second, that this might’ve meant something more.

“Guess he’s still figuring things out,” Mick adds with a shrug. “You know how he is.”

I do. God, I do.

But what I don’t know, what I suddenly can’t breathe around, is why he touched me like that if someone else is still in his head.

If maybe I was just a warm body, a comfort, a one-night detour before the real thing he came for.

I stare into my coffee until it goes cold.

And for the first time in a long time, I wish I’d kept the door closed last night.

And so I out on my steel armor: the key is to act unbothered. Unbothered girls don’t flinch when they hear footsteps behind them.They don’t turn when deep voices say their name like it means something.

They definitely don’t think about the fact that he was supposed to meet someone else.

I sip my coffee and dip the brush in ochre.

“Morning,” I say, without looking up.

I know exactly how I look right now.

Long shirt, technically a nightgown, if anyone cares about labels. Sheer. Loose. Bare underneath.One strap falling off my shoulder like an accident I didn’t fix.

I don’t care if it’s obvious. I’m not playing subtle anymore. I’m painting in the living room, legs folded on the floor, tits barely covered, and acting like it’s a normal Tuesday.

Because pretending is easier than asking questions I don’t want answers to.

After a bit Daniel stands in the doorway.

I can feel it. That silence that weighs more than words.

Like he’s trying to decide if he should say something or just go back to bed.

“Didn’t think you were up,” he finally says.

I drag the brush across the canvas. Slow. Fluid. Not looking at him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

He doesn’t reply. Good.

The painting isn’t even that good.

But I make it look effortless. Colors bleeding into skin tones, curves implied, the sweep of a spine against sunlight.

It’s nothing, but it’s honest. Which is more than I can say for whatever the hell last night was.

He walks past me to the kitchen. Doesn’t touch me, doesn’t ask.

I keep painting. Mick comes in a few minutes later, shirtless and still drying his hair. He stops when he sees me, eyes flicking down. Then he glances at Daniel.

“Didn’t realize we were doing naked painting mornings now,” he says dryly.

I smile. “Just needed some light. The bedroom’s too dark.”

Mick narrows his eyes slightly.

Not angry, just… thoughtful, like he’s starting to see something he shouldn’t.

Daniel keeps his back to us, pretending to read the cereal box like it holds national secrets.

No one talks. No one breathes.

Later that afternoon, I hear them talking in the kitchen.

I’m not trying to eavesdrop, not really, but I catch it anyway.

A low voice. Daniel’s. “…not seeing her. I canceled.”

My breath hitches.

“You sure?” Mick asks, careful. “Thought you were flying in for that.”

“I thought so too. Changed my mind.”

A beat.

“She here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. I close my sketchbook before I hear the rest.

That night, Daniel knocks on my door. Quiet. Barely there. I don’t answer. I’m not ready to be looked at like that again, like I’m everything and nothing all at once. So I crawl under Mick’s hoodie, turn off the light, and pretend I’m asleep.

And let him wonder.

The apartment shrinks with each day that passes. We don’t talk about that night.

We don’t talk at all.

Daniel goes out most evenings now. Never says where. Never asks if I’m coming.

He leaves behind cologne and silence, and I pretend I don’t watch the door after it closes.

I paint in the living room when he’s gone. Nothing full. Just pieces. A curve of a shoulder. A hand without a body. A neck turned away.

I don’t name them. I don’t have to.

Sometimes I find him watching me, when he thinks I don’t see. His eyes linger on my brush strokes, on my bare thighs folded under oversized shirts, on the pink smudge of paint on my jaw. But he never says anything, never comes closer. Just tension. Like lightning that never strikes.

Mick notices, of course he does.

One morning he pushes a cup of coffee toward me without looking up from his phone and says, too casually:

“So… you and Daniel. Did something happen?”

I lift the mug. “What?”

He shrugs. “You’re weird. He’s weird. The air feels like a bad group chat no one wants to leave.”

I snort. “We just haven’t seen each other in years.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “But people don’t just get quiet like that unless they’re trying not to feel something.”

I take a long sip and change the subject.

I don’t know how to answer.

Or maybe I do, and I just don’t want to say it out loud.

By day four, the silence is unbearable.

By day six, I want to scream.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I’ve started leaving my paintings around the apartment.

Not for show. Not for anyone.

It’s just… I don’t finish them lately.

They hang half-dry on chairs and windowsills, edges curling, shadows waiting for color that never comes.

There’s one leaning against the bookshelf: a close-up of someone’s jaw, the sweep of a beard I pretended wasn’t inspired by him.

Another one on the table: hands gripping fabric, knuckles white.

I think Daniel knows they’re about him.

I think Mick is starting to suspect it too.

It happens over something stupid.

Mick’s trying to cook. Daniel’s teasing him about the way he cuts onions. I’m rinsing brushes in the sink, already tense from the way Daniel looked at one of the drying canvases that morning, long, lingering, and unreadable.

“You know, not every brush in this place needs to be in the sink,” Daniel says suddenly, glancing over at me. “There’s, like… no water pressure left.”

I don’t look up. “Didn’t know you were the brush police now.”

Mick snorts. “Oh no. Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel presses, a little too hard. “If you’re gonna paint half-naked in every room, maybe don’t leave turpentine in the damn coffee mugs.”

I freeze.

That lands wrong.

It lands like judgment. Like bitterness.

I turn to him, voice clipped. “Sorry. Didn’t realize the artist lifestyle offended your delicate sensibilities.”

Mick looks between us, eyes narrowing.

“It doesn’t offend me,” Daniel says, arms crossing. “It’s just… chaotic.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not tidy enough for you. Or maybe you’d prefer if I cleaned up and kept quiet, like I used to.”

Daniel’s mouth tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“What, talk?” I spit. “Or remind you that you only care when no one else is watching?”

Mick stops stirring. The room goes dead quiet.

Daniel steps forward. Just slightly. But the tension pulls like wire between us.

“This isn’t about brushes,” Mick says slowly.

“No shit,” I mutter, turning back to the sink.

Daniel exhales sharply, jaw clenched. “You always do this—”

“Do what?” I snap. “Speak?”

“No, deflect. You act like you don’t care and then throw a fit when someone tries to say something real.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is real what you were doing last night before your date with Emilia?”

Mick says my name. Quiet, warning. But I don’t stop.

“Or is this just your thing? You flirt, you fuck, and then you pretend it didn’t mean anything when someone else calls?”

Daniel’s face hardens. “I canceled that. You think I would’ve.. after you—”

“After me what?” I challenge. “Tell me, Daniel. What am I to you?”

Mick drops the spoon in the pot with a loud clang. “Okay,” he mutters. “That’s enough.”

But neither of us look at him. Daniel’s eyes are burning into me, and for once, I don’t look away. Daniel looks at me, jaw tight, mouth open like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Or can’t. And that’s worse.

That silence. That hesitation.

That’s the answer I didn’t want.

I feel the rage before I feel the hurt.

It starts in my chest, then floods my limbs, hot and wild and impossible to cage.

I look around the apartment and all I can see is him.

His stubble in a half-drawn profile.

His fingers, painted in shadow and blue oil.

His mouth, unfinished on a canvas that never dried.

They’re all him. Every last one of them.

I grab the closest one, the one with his hands tangled in sheets, and slam it face-down on the floor. The frame cracks.

Daniel flinches. “Don’t—”

But I’m already reaching for another. A half-finished portrait of just his back, shoulders bare, light hitting the curve of his spine like I memorized it. Rip. Paint splits like skin.

Mick steps forward. “Hey—hey. What are you—”

But I’m not listening. I can’t. I grab one off the windowsill, toss it into the sink, smear it with my palm, water and turpentine ruining every careful stroke.

The one with his lips — I punch straight through the middle of the canvas.

The one with his eyes — I don’t even look at.

I tear them. I gut them.

If I could burn them with my bare hands, I would.

Because they were stupid.

Because I was stupid.

Because loving him, seeing him, putting him into every line — it didn’t make him stay.

It never would.

When it’s done, I’m breathing like I ran a marathon. My hands are covered in paint. My face is wet — I don’t remember crying.

Daniel is frozen in place. Eyes wide. Pain everywhere on his face.

Mick doesn’t say a word. Just looks between us like something finally clicked.

I walk to the door, pull it open.

“I’m done,” I say, voice hollow. “Don’t follow me.”

And I leave.

(Part three here)

[john-ny-walker]

it ain’t ya

pairing — true brandywine x fem!reader

summary — you can’t keep watching him like he isn’t risking everything. not even when you love him more than everything. not even when he’s the one for you.

warnings — hurt. comfort. angst. heartbreak. fluff

wordcount — 3.720 words

authors note — watched “broke” so here we are. he’s such a sweetheart. but also so hurt. he just needs some hurt/comfort.

“This is what makes me feel alive like nothin' else can,” True says, his thick fingers running through his blond hair.

He sighs, leaning back into his seat. His ocean-blue eyes drift from the table up to the ceiling.

True often does it when he tries not to show the emotions you could easily read in his expression. Sometimes he prefers to keep all the emotions just for himself.

“There’s nothin’ that can make me feel more alive than that. It’s what I can do best, what I do and love,” he says, his fingers sliding over his cheeks, scratching along his beard.

Of course, he’s closing you off. Trying to be stronger than he should be, because it’s what he can do best. Pushing you away so he can handle it himself, no matter how much it's going to break him.

He knows the risks and the danger the riding brings with it. And yet, he ignores it, because it’s what makes him feel like himself.

“That’s bullshit,” you mutter. Usually you would laugh about the no pun intended, but not this time.

You shake your head, swallowing thickly. Your gaze slowly drifting toward the window as tears burn in your eyes.

“Bullshit,” you whisper under your breath with a shaky voice.

With your focus on the trucks and cars outside, you let your thoughts wander. Letting them race to find some words to say.

But there's nothing, really.

So, you stay quiet. Watching the vehicles passing by, parking in or out. Your eyes notice the movements, but you don’t really register them, too deep in your thoughts.

What can you possibly do when you know how stubborn True can be? If he wants to get back into that saddle, he will do it.

There's nothing. And no one who can stops him.

It’s what he wants. Knowing the risks of these rides, and yet, he still gets onto that horse like he’s going for a slow, comfortable ride.

So, yes, you know better than trying to stop him. Because of your try, he will do it anyway. With more determination. To prove it.

True needs to prove that his hobby is more than a hobby for him. It’s not something he does. It’s something he is.

“Okay,” you say after a while, wiping away the tears in your eyes.

True’s eyes widen, caught off guard by your words. By your acceptance.

He was prepared for a few reactions. But not this one, not at all.

You’re calm. Too calm, like the calm before the storm. Building quietly and slowly before the anger breaks out and throws him off his feet.

“O-okay?” He repeats your work, tilting his head slightly.

You’re not screaming, not cursing. You’re just sitting there, with teary eyes, a heavy heart and racing thoughts before you nod.

“Okay.”

He knows you don’t mean it, causing the guilt to grow. But it’s what he loves; it’s what he needs to be himself, and he can’t throw that away. Not for anyone.

“It’s not, is it?” He asks, his voice quiet and soft.

You hate it. The way he knows what you think. And even more the softness in his voice. The tilt of his head. And the love that reflects in his beautiful blue orbs.

You hate it. Because they are the reason you fell for him. The reason you forgive him even when he hurts you.

You shake your head. No, it’s not okay. But it has to be.

True nods. Unsure what else he can do. The right words? He can’t give you the right words because they would be lies. So, he stays quiet.

That tiny part of optimism, of hope, makes him believe that maybe, just maybe, you accept it. That you understand what he feels.

But you don't. How can you when you see the injuries, the risks he tries to ignore?

You’re just sitting there, looking past him. Your heart shattering, his hobby makes him feel more like a person than you can. He risks everything to feel alive, instead of trying to find that feeling in someone — in you.

“I love you, True, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. Can’t act like I don’t care when you’re falling off that horse,” you say, your voice breaking slightly. And with it, your heart. His heart. “I can’t keep watching you risking everything.”

“Okay,” he mutters, nodding slightly.

It's not okay. It's a lie, as much as you were okay earlier. And you both know. And yet, you both use it like you mean it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers after a moment of silence. Thick, cuttable silence.

You nod, not trusting your voice any longer.

The pain in his eyes. The knowledge that he disappointed you tugged at his heartstrings.

He hates that expression of softness and love on your face as much as you hate it on his in that moment. Because in that moment there shouldn’t be that softness when you’re both lying at one another — and at yourself.

“Okay,” you say, a tear escaping the corner of your eye and slowly rolling down your face.

He watches it, intensely. The way it forms. The way it lets go of the corner of your eye and makes its way over the soft skin he used to kiss.

“You’re a grown-up man; I won’t tell you what to do. But I can’t keep watching you doing that stuff,” you whisper. “Not even when it’s sexy. Not even when I love you. I can't keep pretending the risk is worth all that.”

Usually he would crack a joke about your words. About finding him sexy while he kind of fights in a saddle to stay on a wild horse.

But not when you’re sitting opposite him with tears leaking down your cheeks.

“I wish I could’ve been better.”

He doesn’t have to say those words out loud for you to understand.

It’s over.

“I’ve never wanted another or better version of you. I just wanted you to be happy,” you say as you scoot out of the booth. “But happy because of something else than constant danger.”

True nods, watching you take your phone off the table. Then your head moves to the top of your head, where his hat is sitting.

Slowly, you curl your fingers around the fabric, taking a deep breath before you lift the hat up and put it down in front of him on the table.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his ocean blue eyes moving from you to the window. “I’m sorry.”

With that you walk out of the small dinner. Your heart shatters in your chest when you remember his sad puppy expression.

True sighs, running his fingers through his hair before he takes his hat and places it back on his head.

He messed up. The one thing that really meant everything to him – you. And he had to mess it up.

But he can't give up the bronc riding either. It’s what he can do best; it’s what makes him True Brandywine.

Getting ready for the next bronc ride, True sighs. It’s different. So fucking different when you’re not standing between those people to cheer for him.

His ocean-blue eyes scanned through the amount of people. Once. Twice. Three times, but you’re not there. You didn’t come to the competition, and he can't blame you.

He can't. And yet, it feels like his heart is ripped out of his chest. Like you’re stomping on it while every piece of him breaks further.

He messed up. So bad.

With his tape in his hands, he sits down, preparing everything for his turn on the bronc. Taping his forearm toward his shoulder. Around his hand. Before he can finally pull the glove off his right hand.

It fits. Perfectly. Like it’s meant to be.

But nothing, not the glove around his hand or his form in the settle, can compare to you fitting in his arms. It can feel perfect. But it’s not.

There’s an emptiness. One only you can fill.

“Ready?” One of the men around him asks. With a nod he climbs over the railing.

His feet sliding down the sides of the box where the horse is standing. Impatiently waiting for the box to open so it can jump out.

True wiggles a bit until he’s comfortable on the back of the horse. Wrapping his gloved hand around the handle of the belt, he tightens it a few more times until everything is sitting as it should.

Then he leans back. His body is tensed as he clenches his jaw.

That’s it. That’s what makes him feel alive. Like nothing else.

Or maybe that was a lie. To protect himself. Or you. Or none because he hurt both of you more than he wants to admit. More than he wants to feel.

“And here he comes,” the man announces loudly. “TRUE BRANDYWINE.”

When the gate opens, the horse runs out, bucking. It makes him feel in a way he can't explain. He loves it. It makes him feel seen and adored. But it can be hard, too. Still, it’s beautiful. It makes him feel.

Bronc riding is one of the best things he does. It’s fun. It’s a challenge to stay on the back of the horse. It makes him feel free and amazing — but just for a moment.

It only makes him feel that way as long as the adrenaline is shooting through his body. As long as he’s on the horse’s back, a few minutes before and after the ride.

But the feeling subsides at some point. And with it the feelings; left is only True then. No bronc riding. No adrenaline. Just him as a normal human being, True Brandywine.

Though, what is he without you, then. Nothing. Giving you up means giving up the only thing that makes him feel loved all the time. Not only when he’s on the back of the horse, not when he’s performing something.

No, with you, he feels all these things whenever he’s around you. Whenever he thinks about you. And yet, he messed up with it. He didn’t work for something that’s worth so much more, that gives him so much more than he thinks he deserves.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting on your couch, staring at the movie on the television, but you’re not quite watching it.

Was it the right decision to leave him alone at the rodeo? Maybe you should have gone there, at least for some support. It's what he needs, what he craves, and you don’t just take away your attention but now also your support from him.

But on the other side, he messed up. He hurt you. Deeply.

Nothing makes him feel better than bronc riding. Not you. Not your love. Not your attention. So why should he need your support?

He got enough. He’s famous. Loved. They all cheer for him when he’s on the horse.

That's what he chose. That’s what he loves. More than anything else.

You lean back on the couch, sighing softly. Tears burn in your eyes as you reply to the conversation with him.

Was it really just him? Or didn’t you give him the chance to explain? Sometimes people say things they don’t mean like that.

You swallow thickly. He said it. Loud and clear.

Bronc riding is what makes him feel alive like nothing else.

You can’t compare to it. Even if it means letting him go.

You can’t offer what he needs. What he thinks makes him True Brandywine.

Maybe he’s sure he’s nothing without the bronc riding. But for you, he was everything. Not just on the saddle. For you, he was everything. Everywhere. Every time.

A knock at the door interrupts your wild running thoughts.

With a wipe of your hands over your face you remove the streaks of tears before you get off the couch and walk toward the door.

You didn't buy anything. No post. And you didn’t plan visitors today either.

Your day was planned out. Breakfast with True. Brinc riding. Dinner with True.

No one knows about the break-up between the two of you. So no best friend, girls night. And no running from club to club to get into bed with the next drunk guy.

Another knock.

With a soft growl you open the door. The blinding sun makes it impossible for you to make out whoever is standing there.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Broad frame. Blond, short hair. Beard.

And the most beautiful ocean-blue eyes you know too well.

“True, what do you want?” You mutter, feeling your heartbeat increasing.

Your mind starts spinning once more. Doesn't he have to be on a horse? What is he doing in front of your apartment after making it damn clear that there’s nothing as important as bronc riding for him?

“Don’t you have something to win?” You ask, your voice shaking slightly.

Damn emotions. Useless, fucking emotions.

True looks at you. Intensely. Way too intensely for your liking.

“I—I don’t, no,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly as he brings one of his hands up to slide through his hair. “I—I noticed that nothin’… not even bronc riding is as important for me as ya are.”

Your heart bursts. Melts. You're not sure. But your mind, your regional sense, tells you to just slam the door into his face and give a fuck what he says.

Heart. Mind.

Mind or heart?

You can’t decide. You want to do both.

Kiss him. Punch him. Love him. Hate him. Forgive him. Or not.

“Y-you should have chosen the bronc, True,” you say. Your voice is unsteady, shaking with emotions, but you try to keep them at bay. “You can’t even be sure that I forgive you for pushing me away like you did. For hurting me the way you did.”

“I know. And it’s not— it’s not about ya forgivin’ me,” he says softly. His blue eyes showing so much emotion and vulnerability. “But I would regret it if I didn’t apologise, honey.”

“No.” You growl.

Tears welling up in your eyes as you look away from him.

How dare he use that nickname?

“You don’t get to call me that anymore,” you mutter, wiping your hands over your face to hide the tears.

But he sees them. And it breaks his heart. Shatters it.

He nods, taking a shaky breath. Then another.

The silence between you is thick, uncomfortable, but neither of you says anything.

Only after a few minutes of you trying to avoid looking at him and hiding your tears. And him taking in your tears and feeling even more hurt, True clears his throat slightly.

“Can I come in, please?” True asks, his voice so soft. So full of love, so familiar.

“Why?” You whisper, not trusting your voice in the slightest if you were to speak louder.

“Please?" He almost begs, making your heart melt even more.

You don’t want him to. Once he’s in your apartment, you know you can't refuse to talk or look at him. It will feel like before, like you’re at home.

Not the place. But the person.

But the walls of defiance you built to protect yourself from heartbreak crumble.

Then you nod, stepping to the side and letting him in.

And the moment he steps foot into your apartment, it feels like the warmth and love are back with you two together. Like he’s everything the place needs to feel perfect, soft.

“Do you want a drink?” You ask, wanting to growl that he knows where the drinks are, but you wait for his answer.

“No, thanks,” he mutters, walking over to the couch before sitting down. You nod and walk after him, sitting down on the other end of the couch.

“So?”

“I’m sorry,” True whispers, regret audible in his voice as he turns to look at you.

You're not looking at him. He doesn’t have the right to complain about it; he knows it. And yet, he wishes you could look at him, letting him know he didn’t mess up completely.

You nod. Unsure what to say. Unsure if you could say anything without starting to cry.

Your heart hurts. Tears blur your vision.

You want to hate him. To push him away. But you also want to love him. And hold him tightly.

“I know it doesn't matter for ya. And ya ain't believe me, but I mean it,” he mumbles, leaning back slightly.

True spreads his legs a bit, perfectly for you to sit on his lap and get comfortable. Like you always did.

And it gets your attention. The shift in his posture.

True isn’t relaxed at all. And yet, he looks so comfortable sitting there, like he belongs there. Like he belongs to you.

“I needed to lose the most important person to recognise what I had. And I hate myself for it,” True continues, his voice shaking by now, and you can see the red rims around his eyes.

True barely cries, so when he does, something hit him deep. It’s not some small thing he needs to fix; it has to be something that breaks his heart that it causes tears in his eyes.

“Thinkin’ that bronc riding makes me feel more alive than everything else caused me to ignore the feelings I have when I’m around ya. To ignore the love and softness I only feel with ya.”

It hurts. Badly. In a good way, though.

The confession makes you sniffle softly, tears leaking down your cheeks. True’s head is snapping toward you immediately, his expression soft but worried.

He hates it so much when you cry. He can't stand it. And while he usually has a way to stop these tears, he doesn’t know how to do it right now. He can’t wrap you in his arms, not after he messed up like he did.

He can't kiss the tears away at the moment. Not before you allow him to do so.

“Don’t cry, please,” True says, hoping it will help. But it doesn’t; it only causes more tears. “I’m sorry, please. Can I– can I hold ya?”

You shake your head.

You want him to hold you. But if you let him, you pretend everything is fine, but it’s not fine.

“Let me hold ya, please. Just a moment, and then I will go if ya want me to,” he tries again.

True tries to blink away his own tears but to no avail. They roll down his cheeks, and he lets them roll down freely. He lets you see the vulnerable and hurt side of him. The side he doesn’t show openly. Though, with you it’s different. You won't judge him; you'll only offer him comfort and love.

“I won't pretend that everything is fine. I just want– need to hold ya, please.”

To his surprise and relief, you nod slightly, allowing him to hug you.

He scoots closer to you, one of his thick arms wrapping itself around your waist. Carefully, like you're made of porcelain. Then he lifts you off the couch and onto his lap.

Your chest is pressing against his firm one. His arms encircled around your waist, thumbs tracing a soft pattern along your lower back. Your arms find their way around his neck, your face hidden in the crook of True’s neck.

“Shh, I've got ya. I’m sorry, baby,” he repeats over and over again. His voice shaking as he feels more of his tears soaking his cheeks. “I’m sorry. But don’t worry. I’ve got ya now, baby.”

The repeating of the soft, meaningful words, the warmth of them soothes you. Better than anything else could. Or ever will. His voice is so soft, and the love you receive from True can’t compare to anything else. Nothing can compare to the feelings he can cause. To the feeling of safety and home.

“True?” You whisper against his neck, and he hums, listening. “What about the bronc competition? Isn’t it right now?”

He nods once more. “It is. But I couldn’t attend to it. Not when I knew I had to fix something more important.”

“But you love bronc riding.”

“I do. But I love ya more,” he mutters. “And if it means keepin' ya mine, I will never do a bronc ride, ever again.”

“But you love it.” You whisper, your mind not quiet, keeping up with his words.

Your heart, though, flutters in your chest. True would give up everything he loves for you.

True chuckles softly. There’s still that sadness and regret audible. But your heart jumps anyway. His laugh, his chuckles — they are the most beautiful sound, next to his voice.

“I do. I love it, bronc riding. But I can never love it more than ya,” he mutters.

You lean your head back, looking at him. Maybe it wasn't an “it’s over” but a “I need a moment to think of the value of both things”.

“I want ya. And if it means to give up bronc riding, I will do that.”

“Even though you love it?”

“Even though I love it. It ain't ya. It can make me happy while I’m in the saddle. But it can't make me happy as ya do all the time,” True explores, watching you intensely.

“Still mad at you. But you don’t have to be better, True. Because I love you as you are.” You say, reminding him of the words he said before you left the diner.

Yeah, he doesn’t have to be another one. He just needs to be himself. As he is. Because that’s what he can do best around you. Be himself. True Brandywine.

“Every right. Gonna make dinner, and we are watching that movie– ya know…” he mutters, making you grin.

He hates that movie. And yet, he watches it because you love it. As long as he doesn’t have to say the name of the movie out loud, he doesn’t mind.

“Mhm, deal,” you mutter with a chuckle.

True smiles softly. Warm. Then he leans closer and presses his lips softly against your forehead. It's not just a kiss. It's a promise. He's yours. And nothing else deserves his attention like you do.

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[kier-with-a-k]

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑂𝑓 𝑌𝑜𝑢 - 𝑀. 𝑆.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡, 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑, 𝑜𝑛 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑡'𝑠 𝑃𝑂𝑉.

Where am I?

No, seriously—where am I? Not in space. Not here. Especially not here.

I’m in that in-between again, right? That split-second of silence before a vinyl spins to life—when the needle hovers just above the grooves, aching to play. Waiting to drown out everything else. That one held breath before the scream. Before the sob. I live there. I am the permanent resident of the pause button.

Disappointment.

Wasted.

Unfulfilled.

That’s me. A ghost of what I could’ve been—dragging chains forged from your expectations down every hallway I haunt. I want to laugh. I want to cry. God, I want to scream so loud my lungs rip apart—but I’m dry. Hollow. Everything’s been sucked out, and all that’s left is this brittle shell. I crack when I move. I flinch when I feel.

You know the funny part?

I just wanted to make you proud. Every stupid thing I did—every rebellion, every self-inflicted scar, every time I got high or ran away or disappeared for days—it wasn’t about escaping you.

It was about reaching you. Proving I mattered.

Even if I had to destroy myself to get there. Even if I had to become everything you were terrified I’d become.

The type to hurt you.

You know I didn’t mean it, right? That time—I didn’t mean to push you so hard. I didn’t know your head would hit the wall like that. I didn’t see the blood ‘til it was too late.

I swear I didn’t mean it.

You believe me… right?

You always do.

Everything I do—everything—traces back to you.

Why is that?

I try to break away. I swear I do. I scream about independence. I dye my hair. I change my voice. I sleep with strangers just to prove I’m not your echo—not yours, not just some withered branch off your perfect, pristine tree. But it all loops back. The orbit never breaks. Even when I drift—I still revolve around you.

And I don’t want your forgiveness. I want your rage. I want you to look at me and feel disgust.

I want you to admit it out loud—that I’m your shame. That I’m everything you never wanted. That I am your failure.

But don’t leave. Don’t walk away. Don’t stop calling. Curse my name, scream until your throat burns—I don’t care. Just don’t forget me.

I need you.

I fucking need you.

And I love you. In the most twisted, pathetic, obsessive way.The kind that eats everything else alive. The kind that makes me hate myself.

You wouldn’t leave me… right?

You love me… right?

Can’t you see that?

Can’t you see I’ve ripped myself open just to show you the truth? That I carved my love for you inside my ribs so every breath hurts? That I burned every bridge so you’d be the only one left on the other side?

I do everything for you. Even the destruction. Especially the destruction.

Because somewhere in the back of my messed-up brain, I thought if you saw me bleeding, you’d come running. You’d pull me from the wreckage. You’d say it’s okay. That you still see the man I used to be. That you still love me.

But all I hear is silence.

Or worse—pity.

That brittle sigh you think I don’t notice. The one that says you’ve already buried me in your mind.

Like you’re just waiting for that call. The one that says I finally slipped—and didn’t bother grabbing the ledge on the way down.

And some nights… I want that. The fall. The nothing.

The end.

Just so I can stop begging. Stop aching. Stop failing.

Stop everything.

Just float in my own abyss. Drowning in misery. Aware, but too far gone to care.

But then—your voice echoes through my skull. And I remember why I’m still breathing. Why I keep crawling through glass just to make it through another day.

It’s you.

It’s always you.

You and that stupid fucking smile.

A/N: what a lovely morning!!! I hope y'all love this as much as I do... LMAO!!! but yeah! This has been sitting in my notesapp for... About 2 weeks now... Lmao! Low key based on Creep by Radiohead.

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