#anna's writing

[drowning-in-cacophony]

improbable

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 297: Like a Weed

[Summary: get the root to make sure the weed stays gone] [tw: mentions of death/murder]

“You,” she says, hand curling about the glass of water, “are dead.”

The glass is warm; not a good sign for the liquid inside. Her fingers are well controlled, not a good sign for how her emotions are going to go. She always gets so paced when the volcano begins to erupt, lava running rivulets. An eerie calm, that’s her version of freaking out.

And freaking out she’s doing. She’d dealt with them last week. Battered them over the head with the shovel. Dug the hole while they’d laid mostly gone, ignored the few murmured whimpers until those had stopped too. Dragged their body by the legs, the last warmth of their flesh creeping against her palms, and dumped it in the fresh grave. A problem dealt with, buried, never to rise and cause issue. She’d scrubbed the filth out of her nails. Moved on.

Now, by the light of the moon spilling into her nighttime kitchen, there’s something impossible.

“Did you know that your locks are really easy to break?” A tilt of a head, hair free of dirt clumps, free of the blood she’d stained it with. The image of someone broken never leaves her head, it’s her agreement with whatever’s beyond. She’ll kick whoever she needs into it but she’ll remember them. The details of what she did. Witness, or something like that. What she’s witnessing right now is someone unfettered to the real reality of last week. What she’s witnessing now is-

Well. Improbable to say the least. She’s never liked the term impossible because nothing could ever truly be guaranteed that way, and this isn’t the best way of proving her feeling right.

“Evidently.” She’s not blinked since setting sight on them. Breaking her locks. Waiting for her in the kitchen. She keeps hold of the glass, because maybe she could use it. Glass to a temple, quite effective. But then a shovel’s meant to be too.

“Like, really easy. You should work on fixing that.” The kitchen island between them. They seem free on their side, unbothered, weightless. Meandering as they consider the fridge, the magnets and various notes she’s got pinned up. Shopping lists. An too old wedding announcements. She’s got her shit together with work. Less so in personal, and it’s a weird thing to get irate about someone noticing yet that’s the feeling climbing like acid up her throat.

The knives, unfortunately, are set closer to the fridge than where she is. But again: a shovel failed.

“What are you doing?” How are you back, what she means. They are dead. Not meant to be, not should be, are. She killed them. She listened to it, could replay it right now. The way the world goes when someone takes their last breath.

Their eyes are flat black in the dark. Still somehow they sparkle.

“You know how you have to pull a weed out by the root to get rid of it?”

“So I should have burnt your body?” Maybe this is a dream. Unlikely – it’s far more probable that her last victim’s risen from the dead than thinking about her dreaming like this, which says something about her dreams. No, this is real. Somehow. The power is on a seesaw, tipping. She’s got the glass. They’ve got the unknown on their side. What they want, what they’re going to do. She’s good at adapting, at least. Riding out the swaying. Because this person might somehow be back from the dead, but if they’re here to return the favour, they’d have sorely wasted their new birth.

They shrug. Decide on a settle, leaning against the island. Arms on the counter, shoulders down, too casual. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never tried it out.”

“We could try now.” There’s a lighter in the kitchen counter to her right. She could lurch to grab it, but she’d have to turn her back on them to do it. Toss the glass, maybe? It’s the reflexes she’d have to worry about. The first time around, it’d been pretty simple. They’d had no chance. Now it’s a more even ground, and that’s without reminding herself that apparently death wasn’t the all ender it should be.

“No, I don’t think so.” All thoughtful, treating it like genuine and that rankles worse than a simple derisive snort. The breath they take, sighing it out all big, like proof that their lungs still work, that their heart’s still going despite her precise effort. The insult of it. A swift job turned back on her like a bad curry. “I was hoping you’d prefer something else.”

“Something else.” She’s used similar framing before she takes someone out. Sometimes a bit of mental torture, false hope, is what’s fun to do. Her fingers, poised on the glass. She’ll throw it projectile. Go for the lighter.

“Yeah.” Oblivious, they let their mouth creep to a nervous smile. “How’d you feel about helping me kill the person who wanted me gone?”

Her fingers twitch.

She doesn’t throw the glass. Yet.

[mournfulroses]

Marina Tsvetaeva, from The Essential Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva; "For Anna Akhmatova,"

[askyea-poesy]

She was brave and strong and broken all at once.

Anna Funder

[psychotrenny]

While the USSR definitely struggled with a whole range of social issues throughout its existence, the conscious attempts to break the oppressive systems of Capitalism put it far in advance of anywhere in the Imperial Core and it's crazy how many Left Libs try to use contemporary culture war rhetoric to frame the Soviets as especially "problematic". Like the USSR never completely resolved the Russian empire's legacy of conquest and colonialism, and various forms of racism and ethnic chauvinism persisted right to the end, but a conscious effort was made to give dignity and self-determination to the various oppressed nationalities and it shows.

This manifested in countless small ways; from dying languages given new life by cultural initiatives and the free circulation of media to the millions of once marginalised peasants and nomads being given access to the education and industry needed to participate in the modern world as equals. But it also manifested in big dramatic symbols that could almost be written off as tokenistic if it weren't for the broader context of clear genuine effort. Like a lot of people forget that Stalin was a Georgian; a people brutalised by Russian Imperial expansion. And yet this member of a conquered and oppressed minority not only rose to the highest position in the nation, but did so as a widely beloved figure whose legacy lives on to this day. And this happened decades before the US even had its first Catholic President.

Like Proletarian rule won't automatically end all systems of oppression but it's the bare minimum prerequisite to doing so in a meaningful way; even flawed and ultimately failed Socialist experiments were able to attack these systems in a way that puts the most powerful and "progressive" Capitalist nations to shame

[asoftepiloguemylove]

"I BELIEVE THERE IS A GOD. BUT I'M NOT SURE HE STILL BELIEVES IN US." // MUSINGS ABOUT GOD

Vi Khi Nao Fish in Exile // pinterest // Ada Limón The Echo Sounder, from "Lucky Wreck" // Mitski Bug Like an Angel // Margaret Atwood Half Hanged Mary // Ethel Cain American Teenager // Supernatural (2005-2020) cr. Eric Kripke // Elle Emerson Regarding the Röttgen Pietà // Yves Olade Belovéd // Kim Addonizio Wild Nights from "Tell Me" // Jensen McRae Machines // Supernatural (2005-2020) cr. Eric Kripke // Anna Kamienska A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook (tr. Clare Cavanagh) // Tom Waits Day After Tomorrow // pinterest // Lauren Camp Upon Taking the Universe One Thing at a Time

[sharp-fanged13]

What a wonderful occassion to remember this happened and is canon af:

[faunandfloraas]

리노 & 승민 This is our cinema.

[odraziduse]

He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

[avaults]

false pretense

✒︎a bridgerton au starring suguru geto

pairing: suguru geto x female reader (zenin)

general summary: dearest gentle reader yet another season containing utmost pride, pretense and pursuit descends upon us. after only mere hours of entering society, you make sure to leave a lingering impression behind as you are caught wandering far from the masquerade ball by no other but suguru geto. lord geto, whom is heir to duke geto and prides himself as such, is certainly more than displeased to find you far off the ballroom and has his opinion on the matter at hand already set regardless of your desperate tries to explain the misunderstanding. as your identity is about to be revealed by him, a sudden commotion bares you the opportunity to slip away. following the rather unpleasant beginning of the season, you pray that suguru geto may not find pursuit in uncovering your pretenses. 

content/warnings: bridgerton au, regency era au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, misogyny, bullying, jealousy, mentions of alcohol and explicit contents, mental health issues, death,  academic themes, breaking society’s norms and expectations, geto is as prideful as ever, reader pretending to be someone else, both being a pain 

author’s gossip: bonjour, my name is anna and i’m this season’s host. behold as this is my first time hosting in general - so please bear with me. quick disclaimer: indulgence and interactions are deeply appreciated. please enjoy :) 

chapter one - welcome to society

[feral-ballad]

Everything is still. I lie still at the center of the hunger that is actually grief,

Anne de Marcken, from It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over

[thoughtkick]

It is good people who make good places.

Anna Sewell

[drowning-in-cacophony]

nugatory

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 288: Loud Lie, Quiet Truth

[Summary: a woman ignores a truth she knows deep down] [tw: implied death of narrator at end]

We are going to die here.

She ignores the nibble, at the lobe of her ear, her brain. A catching between teeth blunted from the constant refusal to engage. It’s an old dog unable to stop howling that last warning, even as it knows its master’s never going to give a damn.

Her fingers twitch about the staff – it’s already showing the wear of the fights. A crack through the wood at the end she’d just used to brace against the thunderous hurricane of blows from a man with arm muscles the size of overinflated balloons, but she’s still fine and she’ll display that peacock-style. Her toe points proud, her chin jutting out in challenge. The staff she brings back into defence, which everyone knows is just a temporary status before she gives into attack. Maybe it’s better described as another challenge. Down her spine, a trickle of a sigh; against her skull, a quiver. Better that than her shoulders, though. Better there than somewhere someone can see. She’s fought through impossible odds before, right. What’s going to be different about this one?

Pride always comes before a fall, a reminder that swirls with a degree of bitterness, a pointlessness. Pride comes before a fall, but what if she turns the fall into a roll, slamming back onto her knees, slamming the staff into some soft part between the next set of ribs? She glances at the rest of them, one eyebrow cocked in the space that’s remained, the breath they’re all taking before whoever’s next comes in to deal with her. She takes a breath, purposefully easy, like her heart beat’s not some rabbit jacking against her bones. She looks half-impatient, taunting them for their decisions, and all the while a voice in her head can’t stop murmuring a truth. The only thing that awaits here is her death, it says, because there’s no other way out of this. It’s bravado, in her veins. It’s lies, in her head. Just because they’re screamed loud doesn’t mean they’re true.

But she’s always thought it’s the things that have noise that are understood, not those quiet things creeping in through the shadows.

“I,” she says, nothing flinching about in her voice, “can do this all day.”

All leery mockery, indications flashing bright lights, warning of impending doom. To their egos, if they let her keep chatting this shit. To her body, something murmurs, if she doesn’t use the small stunned silence she wrought after her last sound success to beat it in the other direction. Tear for the hills, live to fight another day, but she doesn’t need retreat. She won’t acknowledge the need. It doesn’t exist.

The next competitor is on his feet in an instant. Wrapped fists, clenched knuckles that look thrice the size of her own, and he doesn’t even look like there’s a bone in his body that understands defeat. She braces her feet, launches. The staff might bear a few scars, yet who doesn’t? It’s all a matter of perspective. It’ll do fine enough, and it does, as she uses her smaller stature to nimbly dodge the power hits of the man, waiting until the perfect opportunity to sweep the uncracked end of the staff through the air. A cutting whistle, the sound of triumph cresting over the soundtrack of pounding hearts and meaty pants. She hits him in the back of the knee, in the back of his skull when he goes down. A firm smack of wood to that bone will do quite a nice bit of damage.

So, she learns a second later, does a fist.

The fall. She crashes to her knees, a mountain felled, and then comes the avalanche to polish things off.  An attack, right to her ribs, an explosion of pain to rock the table. Her palms scratching the soil, and she fumbles for the staff while trying to breathe, footsteps punching into the dirt like a fist had done her poor sore and throbbing neck. Another kick has her on her back, wheezing in agony and  staring into an uncaring sky soon blotted out by the lucky hitter. He’d not been content waiting for the pause after her defeats for her challenge. He’d come right in and just taken it as his success, fed up of the games.

“You’ve not finished me off yet,” she spits, a warm fleck at the corner of her lip. The loud lie, right on her mouth along with the blood.

Yes, then have, the quiet truth she still ignores, even when the man raises his clenched rock-destroying fists, with only one direction for them to go.

[mournfulroses]

Anna de Noailles, translated by Norman R. Shapiro, from Poems; “Dazzled, Precise,”

[houseslollipop]

play the game

you’re a new rheumatologist at ppth. when dr house realizes your intelligence, he becomes easily obsessed. a game of cat and mouse ensues. gregory house x reader.

first house md fic so ty for reading <33 this is self indulgent (right around 4k words). i look forward to writing more like this, i am now taking requests via my ask box :) warnings below. also available on my ao3 greghouseluvr if that is your preferred platform.

mdni, enemies to lovers (i think ?!), pill popping mentions, tw death mentions, some smut, reader referred to with she/her pronouns at times, asshole greg house, i am NOT a medical professional

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

“We need you for a consult,” you hear your friend’s familiar voice from behind you as you reach to open the door to your office.

“Cameron,” you rest your forehead against the wooden door, you’re tired and ready to finish your charting, “do you at least have the file?”

She shakes her head of brunette curls and looks down at the carpeted floor.

“Fine, let’s go.”

You know that the Diagnostics Team would only use you in an emergency. It was probably Cameron’s idea, given that she’s a close friend of yours. Her boss doesn’t seem to be a fan of people stepping on his toes — especially when it comes to his cases.

“Is House okay with me giving my medical opinion?” You ask as you make your way down the hall.

Cameron shrugs, “I don’t know. I just want a second opinion before we pump this eleven-year-old full of steroids.”

A sense of dread fills you. Consults are normal for you, but you’ve never done one for Dr. House. He’s infamous for his outlandish attitude and horrible manners, but he’s a genius. You better not screw this up. Or worse.

Cameron opens the door to the Diagnostics Office.

Gregory House, M.D.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” House gestures towards you and Cameron, “did you two come up with a differential while you were screwing?”

You stand there in a daze, trying to make something of the whiteboard that has about twenty symptoms scribbled on it.

“Who has the file?” Cameron ignores House’s crude remarks, looking to her colleagues.

Dr. Foreman hands it to her, a slim red file.

You read the case back to front — an 11-year-old girl presenting with muscle weakness and several skin rashes. She had just been on a cruise a few weekends ago and plays in a soccer league.

“Has to be juvenile dermatomyositis,” you quickly hand the file back to Foreman, “best treatment is steroids.”

Dr. House shuffles towards his desk, “You heard her, start the treatment.”

Without a minute to spare, the ducklings flee to the ICU to begin treating the patient for your diagnosis. You begin to walk with them, but House stops you.

“You,” he points his cane at you, “not bad. I’ll let you know if the kid survives.”

You nod your head politely and leave his office. You still have a whole day’s worth of charting to catch up on. You can see House throwing a red tennis ball up in the air as you leave, his ankles crossed on his desk. His eyes never falter their watch on you.

A man in a perfectly pressed lab coat heads into Dr. House’s office after you leave. The oncologist — Dr. Wilson. They’re always following each other around.

“I didn’t know you made nice with the new rheumatologist,” Wilson begins his interrogation.

House puts the tennis ball down for a moment, “It was just a consult, it was Cameron’s idiotic idea.”

“So… a beautiful, intelligent doctor didn’t do anything for you?”

“It obviously did something for you,” House scratches the side of his jaw, “weird, I thought hot nurses were more your speed.”

Wilson tries to come up with something witty, but unfortunately there is not much he can muster.

“Come on House, why won’t you just let yourself be vulnerable for once?” He continues his chattering as he follows House into the elevator.

House presses the button to take them to the ICU, “vulnerability is a weakness.”

The ICU is buzzing with the usual hustle and bustle, the smell of disinfectant travels up House’s nostrils. He and Wilson make their way to the patient’s room. House would never admit it — but he has been worried about the patient. She’s only a child, the emergency room had suspected heat exhaustion or an allergic reaction. Electrolytes and allergy tests didn’t help. They were running out of diagnoses.

“She’s doing better already,” Chase emerges from the patient’s room. “Steroids have calmed the inflammatory reactions, she’s resting.”

“So it is dermatomyositis,” House stares at the patient through the glass, “start her on Methotrexate in a few hours.”

“That’s it?” Chase crosses his arms in question, “The case is over?”

“That’s it,” House turns back to the elevator, “she can be discharged tomorrow, let the parents know to bring her to a pediatric rheumatologist.”

You solved a case so quickly that House had nothing to say. They had run every test, exhausted every diagnosis — and all you had to do was read the damn file.

He can’t tell if he’s attracted to your sharp intelligence or angered by it. He just knows that it frustrates him in a way he can’t explain. Just like he can’t explain why he wants to see you again, and again, and again.

“Interesting,” Wilson presses the elevator button this time, “it seems you’ve been outsmarted.”

House knows he’s been more than just outsmarted. At this point, being outsmarted is the least of his problems. Repressing his desires is the priority. It keeps replaying in his mind — the way you licked the tip of your index finger to flip the pages of the patient’s file, how you smoothed your hands over your modest skirt that left just enough to the imagination, how you’re so smart without even trying.

Your charting is barely getting started, you sort through various patients’ files trying to find a place to start. There are countless things you need to finish by the end of the week, but something is distracting you.

Dr. House.

His quick-wit, deep voice, and eyes you could get lost in. It feels so wrong to think of him in a way that makes your stomach drop, but you can’t help the bit of attraction you feel towards the older doctor. Cameron shares stories of his antics and schemes, making him sound like a mad scientist. You didn’t expect to enjoy his crudeness, to desire to be around him again.

The sound of your office door clicking open interrupts your thoughts.

“Dr. House,” you feel heat brimming up to the tips of your ears. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

You adjust your lab coat nervously, and try to make your messy desk look a bit neater.

He pulls out the chair adjacent to your desk. “You mind if I sit?��� He says, “Bum leg.”

“Yeah… uhm, sorry,” you motion towards the chair, “is there something you need to discuss?”

“Actually, yes.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. He’s hard to read, his expression neutral as he mindlessly pops a pill into his mouth with no water.

“Is this about the patient?” You begin to panic, praying to whatever higher power that you hadn’t messed up the diagnosis. “Is she showing improvement?”

He twists the orange pill bottle between his fingers. “That’s the problem, she’s fine.”

“And that’s a problem… why?”

A deep breath fills his chest, “you solved the case, it’s over. She’s your patient.”

A look of bewilderment spreads over your face. The whole point of patient care is that patients get better.

House grasps his cane in a move to get up, his feet pointing towards the door.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Your voice stops him in his tracks.

“Full of questions today, are we?” He shoots you a half-hearted smile, “You solved it, she’s yours. It’s that simple. You can prepare her for discharge tomorrow.”

Maybe his crudeness and holier-than-thou attitude isn’t so attractive, because his words are making your ears pound.

“Is this how you reward people for being smarter than you?” Your hands ball into fists in the pockets of your lab coat, you’ve never had someone make you feel so — small. Your intelligence is what has always given you the upper hand, and now it’s letting House kick you down the ladder.

He bites the inside of his cheek and flashes his stupid, ridiculous, awful blue eyes at you, “you may have cured my patient, but I keep the lights on at this hospital.”

The door clicks behind him when he leaves, the tapping of his wooden cane echoing down the hall.

You rub your temples, sinking back into your seat in defeat. It would have been in everybody’s best interest for you to refuse the consult, surely Cameron and the rest of House’s team would’ve come to the correct conclusion.

The patient had started on Methotrexate by morning. Even though Cameron explained to the parents that her condition was chronic, the parents were thrilled their child would live. You fasten on your badge as you hurry to the pediatric ward, your heels clicking against the tile floors.

“Good morning,” you greet the parents with a welcoming smile, “I am happy to share with you that your daughter will be able to go home this afternoon.”

The parents stare at Cameron blankly, “I thought Dr. House was in charge?” The father says.

“Dr. House is no longer the attending on your daughter’s case,” Cameron says, “let me go get the discharge paperwork.”

Cameron spots a familiar face at the nurse’s station, cane in hand.

“The family is asking for you,” Cameron cocks her head towards the patient’s room.

“Pretty sure mommy and daddy will be just fine,” House’s nose scrunches up, “our expert rheumatologist has it all under control.”

“Stop playing games,” Cameron snaps, “can’t you just move onto the next case?”

“Your friend is my next case,” he watches you speak to the patient’s family, he doesn’t do stuff like that, “studied at Duke, fellowship at Mayo Clinic… what else should I know?”

“Get over it, House,” Cameron staples the discharge paperwork and heads back to the patient’s room.

House leans on the nurse’s station, observing you and Cameron through the glass. He notices you take time with the patient, something he has never been good at. A smile tugs at his lips when you give the young girl a high-five.

“I recommend regular follow-ups with a pediatric rheumatologist for now, I will write a referral,” you tell the patient’s parents, “here is my card in case you have any further questions.”

You hand the patient’s file back to Dr. Cameron. As you walk out into the hallway, a wooden cane smacks into your chest.

“Excellent bedside manner,” Dr. House lowers his cane back down to the floor, “where’d they teach you that?”

“Are you hazing me?” You keep walking, purposely leaving him behind.

He catches up to you when you’re at the nurse’s station, you can feel his presence behind you. His warm breath fanning your neck, he’s so close you can hear his heartbeat.

You lean on the counter, scribbling on your notepad and trying to ignore him. The nurse across from you is trying not to stare.

“Just making an effort to get to know the person who is trying to take my job,” he tilts his head closer to your ear.

“I am not after your job,” you turn to face him, your eyes level with his chest, “my only intentions were to help Cameron and the patient.”

The look of anticipation on his face disappears, it’s replaced by rejection. The older man continues to follow you to the elevators, hot on your heels.

You know he’ll follow you into the elevator, piss you off some more. You keep moving past the elevators and head to the stairwell.

“That’s just evil,” he shakes his head at you, “have you no respect for cripples?”

His voice echoes through the stairwell, and you can’t help but laugh a little.

“I’m sure you’ll catch me later,” you shrug, making your way down the rest of the stairs.

House tries to pry his eyes away from you, but he just watches your figure vanish down the stairwell. Only the pain in his leg was stopping him from following you. He reaches into his jacket pocket, feeling around for the small orange pill bottle.

“You know the whole ‘bullying-a-girl-means-you-like-her’ thing only works through junior high,” Wilson makes air quotes with his fingers.

“Oh, and you know everything about women,” House moves past Wilson, “how’s that third divorce going, by the way?”

Wilson crosses his arms, a strand of his dark hair falling between his brows, “you’re deflecting.”

House presses the elevator button with his cane, “actually, you deflected my question.”

The elevator takes them both to the first floor — the clinic. House despises the clinic. Patients wheezing, coughing, itching strange rashes and oozing from every orifice — and all their diagnoses are something that can easily be fixed with some rest, over-the-counter medication, or better decisions.

“There are two reasons you’d come here voluntarily,” Wilson grabs House by the forearm, stopping him, “either to bother Cuddy, or to keep up this strange scheme you have going on.”

“Maybe,” House dramatically clutches his chest, “I’m just upholding my oath to care for every patient.”

You’re in Exam Room 3, examining a man who appears to have swollen lymph nodes. You’d rather be finishing your charting, writing referrals, completing rounds — maybe anything else, but clinic hours are a requirement.

“Swollen lymph nodes are often caused by infections,” you feel the nodule below the man’s jaw, “been sick recently?”

He nods, but several knocks on the door interrupt the exam.

“I’m sorry, this will just be a moment.”

You crack open the door ever-so slightly, almost like you’re afraid of an intruder.

“Seriously?” You say through gritted teeth.

Dr. House’s icy blue eyes stare down at you, his pupils dilated like a cat on the hunt.

“I need you for a consult,” he hands you a patient’s file, you open it.

“House, this guy is in a coma.”

“Exactly!”

Something in your gut just can’t say no. Maybe it’s his salt-and-pepper beard or partially unbuttoned shirt that makes you only dislike him, but not hate him.

“Sir, no need to be concerned about your lymph nodes. If they’re still there in a month, come back to the clinic,” you say to the patient briefly.

“Toodles!” House waves to the patient and reaches over you to close the exam room door.

“I thought you didn’t want my help with patients,” you continue reading through the file as you follow House down the hall.

“I’m testing you,” he pops the cap of his pill bottle open, “maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

Of course it’s a test. You could do this, you had already outsmarted him once.

House takes you to the patient’s room. It’s eerie, the only sound is the heart monitor beeping. The patient is an older man, and he’s been comatose for a month.

“Tell me,” House leans against the rail of the patient’s bed, “why is he in a coma?”

You feel like you’re back in residency, when those nasty attendings would put you on the spot.

You gulp, “patient presented to the emergency room with severe strep throat symptoms, patient had a consistently high fever —“

“Tell me something I don’t know,” House interrupts.

“Patient was admitted to the ICU as the fever, nausea, and vomiting had progressed overnight. Patient was a lifelong smoker, he had difficulty breathing and was put on a ventilator,” your eyes glance to the comatose man.

House keeps his gaze on you. He wants to watch how your hands clutch the file, how your chest heaves from speaking so quickly, how you nervously bite your glossy, swollen lips.

“While the patient was on ventilation, he went into cardiac arrest. He was not pronounced dead, but is now comatose,” you look up from the file and at House, “it’s rheumatic fever.”

He reaches across the patient’s bed, snatching the file from you.

“He could still be with us,” you touch the patient’s hand, “if his strep hadn’t gotten so bad, he would’ve been fine.”

“You knew what he had,” House scrubs his hand over his face, “I mean, I don’t care, but you knew.”

“You do care,” you begin walking out of the patient’s room, “you wanted me to be wrong.”

The tapping of the cane, you can hear it. He’s following you.

“I didn’t want you to be wrong,” he shoves the file under his arm.

“You didn’t want me to be right.”

“Then why’d you come with me?”

He’s in the elevator with you, following you, again. Perhaps this is some kind of weird social experiment he’s trying out.

You take him in for a moment. What would it be like, just one kiss? What would his big, rough hands feel like gripping your hips?

His eyes soften, and the crinkles by his eyes make you smile. He keeps close to you as you walk to your office, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

“I’m going to go into my office now,” you open the door.

“Wouldn’t be chivalrous of me if I didn’t walk you in.”

Click.

“Did you lock the door?” You take your lab coat off, hanging it on the back of your chair.

“I think you need to get that checked,” he points to the doorknob. “Might be defective.”

It’s Dr. House, he’s just being a prick. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

You stand in front of him, observing the way he tenses up. The silence is palpable, and tension seethes through the both of you. You’re afraid if you touch, one of you might explode.

You muster up the confidence to grip his red dress shirt, his eyes going wide. You pull him against the wall into what can only be described as the most desperate, dirty, satisfying kiss you’ve ever experienced. An eruption of pleasure ignites through your body as House cradles your jaw, kissing you harder. His cane falls to the floor. Your lips are even softer than he had imagined, you taste like pure sweetness.

House feels like flying, electricity sparks throughout him. For the first time in months, he’s focused on something other than his pain. He slides his hand under your blouse, feeling your soft skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps.

The stubble of his beard against your face and his bruising kisses make you writhe against him. You’re putting your hands wherever you can reach, popping open the buttons of his shirt to explore him.

“Jackpot,” he takes a moment to admire your flushed face and seductive eyes.

You push him back towards your desk chair, pawing his jacket off. His lips continuously crash against yours, hot and needy. He makes a move to sink his teeth into your collarbone. It makes you feel dizzy, like he’s claiming you.

House sits under you, waiting for your next move. All rationality is neglected, and your hands begin unbuckling his belt.

Checkmate.

Hungry kisses make their way down your neck as House’s calloused hand migrates up your thigh, pulling down your underwear. Your office will be a mess by the time all is said and done, articles of clothing and paperwork strewn across the floor.

House isn’t the talkative type during a time like this, but he groans your name and his hands grip your hips firmly. His head falls back as you settle into a rhythm. He starts assisting your movements, his warm hands unbuttoning your blouse and roaming your body.

There’s more greedy kisses, you feel full to the brim with everything. Your legs shake, and all that you feel is House. His lips, his hands against your skin, his heart beating against yours. It’s euphoric.

Time slows down and your eyes briefly fall shut. House’s fingers trail down your spine, a soft smile upon his face.

His chest glistens with a sheen layer of sweat and his face is flushed. You’re willing to bet that seeing him in such a state of happiness is a rarity.

House picks up your underwear from the arm of your chair and shoves them in the pocket of his dress shirt, “I’m saving these for later.”

“I have a whole drawer of them at home.”

[diorsdolliest]

𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒; min ho

summary: y/n is heartbroken after being stood up on valentine’s day, but when min ho confesses his feelings, she begins to question everything she thought she knew about him—and herself.

warnings: N/A

word count: 2798

VALENTINE’S DAY WAS THE WORST !

every year, you swore it wouldn't bother you.

and every year, you watched your friends get grand gestures, love confessions, and sweet surprises while you got... nothing.

you saw it in the way yuri's eyes lit up when juliana asked her to be her valentine, the way they looked at each other like the rest of the world didn't exist.

you wanted that.

no—you needed it.

too bad you didn't have a boyfriend. or anyone remotely interested in you.

and as if that wasn't bad enough, kitty refused to let it go.

"kitty, just face it—i'm never getting a valentine. i've accepted it, why can't you?" you sighed dramatically, flopping onto the couch.

kitty, ever the optimist, shook her head. "i'm a matchmaker, y/n! someone out there would be so lucky to have you."

before you could respond, the dorm door swung open.

and, of course, it had to be him.

min ho.

he took one look at you and scoffed. "do you have to be here?" his accent curled around each syllable, laced with irritation.

you rolled your eyes. "yes, i do. if you have a problem with it—frankly, i don't care."

his jaw ticked. "shocking."

"god, you are so insufferable," you shot back, shifting to face kitty instead. "anyway, what's your plan for valentine's?"

at the mention of it, kitty's expression faltered. "nothing, i guess. dae hasn't asked me or anything yet."

you gasped. "excuse me?"

kitty shrugged. "he probably will, i just—"

"if he doesn't, we're having a girls' night," you decided, already springing to your feet. "just us, old 2000s rom-coms, and—"

your eyes flickered toward the kitchen. without thinking, you strode over and snatched the freshly popped popcorn min ho had just made.

he turned slowly, gaze darkening. "put. that. back."

you smirked, tossing a piece into your mouth. "make me."

for a second, neither of you moved.

min ho stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he stared you down. "you're so annoying, you know that?" his voice was lower now, quieter.

your heart kicked up—whether from irritation or something else, you refused to acknowledge.

"and yet," you popped another piece into your mouth, "you're still standing here."

his eyes flicked to your lips for half a second.

you blinked.

before you could react, you turned on your heel and skipped back to kitty, plopping down beside her.

"i'm sure dae will ask me, though... right?" kitty asked, her voice hopeful.

you forced yourself to focus, nudging her playfully. "of course he will. he loves you."

but as you spoke, you could feel min ho's stare burning into you from across the room.

and for some reason, you didn't hate it.

a week later, you were caught completely off guard.

jaehyun—a boy you barely spoke to—approached you in the courtyard, a single rose in his hand and a box of chocolates tucked under his arm.

your first reaction was to laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “me?”

jaehyun grinned, nodding as he stepped closer, the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. “y/n y/l/n, will you be my valentine?”

you blinked, glancing around like this was some kind of joke. but there were no snickering friends hiding nearby, no cameras pointed at you for some cruel prank.

just him, holding out the chocolates, slipping the rose behind your ear with careful fingers.

and for once, for the first time ever, you felt chosen. wanted.

a slow smile spread across your lips. “yeah, i will.”

jaehyun smirked before walking off, his friends clapping him on the back.

you watched him go, your heart thrumming in your chest, warmth blooming in your stomach. then, clutching the chocolates, you spun around and ran back to your dorm, excitement bubbling over.

for the first time, valentine’s day wasn’t something to dread.

it was something for you.

february 14th.

you spent an hour getting ready, carefully picking out your outfit, fixing your hair, and perfecting your makeup.

by the time you arrived at the restaurant, you were practically glowing, heart hammering with anticipation.

you found your table and sat down, smoothing your dress.

the waiter came over, pen poised over his notepad. "would you like to order?"

you shook your head, smiling. "oh, i'm waiting for my date. he'll be here soon."

the waiter nodded and walked away.

you checked your phone. no messages.

he's probably just running late.

thirty minutes passed. you were still sitting there, hands folded neatly in your lap, foot tapping against the floor.

an hour.

the waiter returned with a hesitant look. "would you like to order something while you wait?"

your stomach churned. "no... i think he'll be here soon."

you pulled out your phone, hesitated, then finally texted him.

no response.

you clicked on his profile.

blocked.

your breath hitched.

the realization crashed over you like a wave, drenching you in humiliation.

he wasn't coming.

two hours later, you ran out of the restaurant, the cold night air biting at your tear-streaked cheeks as you rushed to kitty's dorm.

the moment you reached the door, it swung open.

min ho.

you froze.

his gaze flickered over you, taking in the trembling shoulders, the ruined makeup, the way you clutched your arms around yourself like you were trying to hold the pieces together.

and then his expression shifted.

the teasing smirk he usually wore was gone. instead, his brows furrowed, lips parting slightly as he took a step forward.

you didn't give him the chance to speak. you shoved past him, storming into the room and collapsing onto the couch, burying your face in your hands.

min ho followed, shutting the door behind him.

silence.

then, the rustling of fabric as he moved closer.

the couch dipped beside you.

you flinched, immediately shifting away from him. "if you have something to say, i don't want to hear it!" your voice cracked, betraying you.

min ho exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "y/l/n... what happened?"

his tone. you weren't used to it. not from him. it wasn't condescending, wasn't laced with the usual irritation. it was something else.

something dangerous.

something that made your walls tremble.

you shook your head, wiping the fresh tears that spilled down your cheeks. "it's nothing."

min ho didn't move. "you look like you just had the worst night of your life. tell me."

you swallowed the lump in your throat.

for a moment, you considered shutting him out.

but then his eyes locked onto yours—deep, searching, unwavering—and suddenly, everything poured out.

"i was asked out by this guy," you whispered.

"jaehyun. and he—he asked me to be his valentine, and i thought, for once, someone actually wanted me. and then he stood me up." your voice broke on the last word.

"he blocked me."

the weight of it hit you all over again, a fresh wave of embarrassment and hurt crashing down. your chest tightened as more tears slipped down your face, shoulders shaking.

min ho was silent.

then, before you could react, he reached for you—his hands gripping your wrists, gently pulling them away from your face.

and then he did something you never expected.

he pulled you in.

your breath hitched as you crashed against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, warm and secure and safe.

the shock nearly knocked the air out of your lungs, but the moment his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, the dam inside you broke completely.

you sobbed into his shoulder, hands clutching at the fabric of his hoodie. "i feel so stupid," you choked out.

min ho tensed. "you're not stupid."

you shook your head, unable to stop the spiral. "i just—i wanted it so badly. i wanted to feel special. but i guess i'm just—"

"don't."

his voice was firm.

you blinked up at him, sniffling.

min ho exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. "you are so much more than what that asshole saw you as. he's an idiot. he's a coward. and he just lost the chance to be with someone beautiful, talented, annoyingly stubborn—"

you let out a watery laugh.

"—and actually gives a shit about people," min ho finished. his voice lowered. "you deserve more than that. so much more."

you swallowed hard, your heart pounding.

it wasn't just what he was saying.

it was how he was saying it.

the way his gaze flickered down to your lips for half a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

the way his fingers curled slightly like he had to stop himself from holding you closer.

the way he was looking at you.

like he was realizing something.

like maybe he should've been the one to ask you first.

your breath caught in your throat.

min ho must've realized how close you were because he cleared his throat, quickly pulling back—but not before his fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to.

you stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. "you should get some rest," he muttered. "you look exhausted."

you shook your head, wiping your cheeks. "stay with me, please." you looked down, avoiding his eyes.

min ho went completely still.

you didn't dare move, didn't even breathe as the weight of your words hung in the air between you.

stay with me, please.

you hadn't meant for it to come out so desperate, so raw. but now it was out there, and there was no taking it back.

his breath was slow, measured—like he was carefully choosing his next move.

then, without a word, he leaned back into the couch, his body still tense, but he didn't leave.

"i'm not gonna leave you alone like this," he murmured, voice quieter now.

you nodded, but you didn't look at him. couldn't.

because if you did, you knew you'd break all over again.

the silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. the only sound was your shaky breathing, the occasional sniffle as you wiped at your cheeks.

and then—just barely—you felt it.

min ho's fingers, brush against yours.

a hesitation.

a pause.

and then he held them.

not in the way a friend would. not in the way someone offering comfort should.

his grip was warm, steady—but his thumb traced over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine.

your breath hitched.

what is he doing?

min ho cleared his throat, but he didn't let go. "you're such an idiot."

your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "excuse me?"

he let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head.

his grip on your hand tightened for half a second before he finally let go, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"i mean, really, y/n?" he muttered.

"some guy gives you a rose and suddenly you think you're in some fairytale romance? you actually believed he—" min ho cut himself off, jaw tightening.

he looked away, breathing heavily through his nose.

you stared at him, something in your chest twisting. "why do you care so much?"

his head snapped back to you, eyes burning. "because it's you."

the room went deathly silent.

you barely had time to process before min ho was speaking again, voice lower, rougher. "do you have any idea how fucking frustrating it is to watch you chase after people who don't deserve you? to see you get your hopes up just to end up crying like this?"

your throat tightened. "min ho—"

"i would never do that to you," he interrupted, his voice breaking slightly.

"i would never make you feel like you're not enough. and you—" he huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you don't even see me, do you?"

you froze.

your pulse pounded in your ears as you stared at him, at the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his hands clenched into fists like he was trying to hold himself together.

like this confession had been clawing its way out of him for way too long.

"...what?" your voice was barely above a whisper.

min ho let out a sharp exhale like he'd already said too much. but then his eyes locked onto yours, and something in them shifted.

screw it.

he surged forward, his face just inches from yours. "i like you, okay?" he muttered, the words dripping with frustration, desperation, something dangerous.

"i have liked you. and it's driving me insane watching you throw yourself at guys who don't even know how lucky they are to have your attention."

your lips parted, but no words came out.

min ho's jaw tensed, his eyes flickering between yours, searching—waiting.

for what, you didn't know.

for you to push him away?

to laugh in his face?

you didn't.

instead, you did the only thing you could do.

you reached for his hand again, gripping it tightly in yours. and this time, he was the one who sucked in a sharp breath.

"say it again," you whispered.

his brows furrowed slightly, his voice barely above a breath. "what?"

you swallowed, heart hammering against your ribs. "say it again."

min ho's fingers curled around yours. his voice was quieter this time, but just as intense.

"i like you."

you could barely think. barely breathe.

but then min ho leaned in, so close that his lips ghosted over your cheek, lingering there for a heartbeat too long.

his breath was warm against your skin, his grip on your hand tightening like he was grounding himself.

his voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper.

"...and i'm so fucking tired of pretending i don't."

you didn't move.

didn't breathe.

min ho's confession hung between you, thick and suffocating, as if the weight of it alone could crush you.

his breath was warm against your skin, his grip on your hand firm—like he was daring you to pull away, begging you not to.

but you couldn't.

your heart pounded so loudly you swore he could hear it.

every nerve in your body was on edge, hyper-aware of him—the heat of his body so close to yours, the tension radiating off of him like an electric current.

you forced yourself to swallow. "min ho..."

his name came out weaker than you intended, barely more than a whisper.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows furrowed, his lips parted slightly like he was preparing for the worst.

like he expected you to shut him down.

and maybe you should've.

maybe you should've laughed it off, teased him, acted like this was some sick joke—because what other explanation was there?

this was min ho.

min ho, who bickered with you like it was a second language.

min ho, who always had something sarcastic to say, acted like he barely tolerated you most of the time.

min ho, who was right here, so close you could feel every breath he took.

"i—" you swallowed again, voice barely steady. "you can't just say things like that."

his jaw tightened. "why not?"

"because..." you hesitated, your grip on his hand loosening, but he didn't let go.

because it would change everything.

because it was easier to keep pretending.

because if you let yourself believe him—if you let yourself hope—you wouldn't survive it if he took it back.

min ho exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained. "you really don't get it, do you?"

you blinked at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. "get what?"

"that i see you." his voice was quieter now, raw in a way that made your stomach twist.

"i see all of you, y/n. not just the part that laughs too loudly, or the part that annoys the shit out of me daily. i see the part that cries when no one's looking. the part that wants so badly to be chosen—" he broke off, shaking his head.

"and it pisses me off that you don't even realize you already are."

your breath hitched.

min ho's gaze flickered between your eyes, your lips, and back to your eyes.

his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch you again, but something was holding him back.

you.

you were holding both of you back.

you squeezed your eyes shut, your pulse thrumming wildly against your skin. "min ho, i don't—"

"tell me you don't feel it." his voice was low, almost desperate. "tell me i'm wrong."

you opened your mouth, ready to deny it. to throw up your defenses, to make this easier.

but nothing came out.

because you did feel it.

you felt it in the way your chest tightened whenever he was near.

in the way his absence left a void, you hated to acknowledge.

in the way, his touch, his words, and his presence sent something sharp and terrifying through you.

you felt it.

and min ho knew.

his lips parted like he was about to say something else—one final push to make you admit what was already written all over your face.

but then, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

you jumped.

min ho jerked back slightly, his grip on your hand loosening for the first time. the moment shattered the intensity between you dissipating like smoke.

the door creaked open, and kitty's voice rang out.

"oh—uh, am i... interrupting something?"

your head snapped up, your breath still uneven.

min ho let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair, forcing his expression back into something unreadable.

"no." his voice was flat, distant.

"nothing at all."

liar.

he shot you one last look before standing up, jaw tight.

then he walked out, leaving you alone on the couch, pulse still racing, heart still pounding, and everything left unsaid.

pt 2 - all i really want is you

[spaceorphan18]

Alright. So. This is a thing that happened....

I... maybe have written my first real X-Men - Rogue/Gambit fic. Inspired by an interview X-Men 97 Gambit Voice Actor did. And then, it got posted to Twitter. And then said Gambit Voice Actor reblogged it, READ IT, and commented.

I am so... shellshocked you guys. I cannot believe this happened. I just... I was shaking when I found out today. This is wild and amazing and I'm so flattered and wow. I just can't even believe it.

I have literally been smiling all day.

<3