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ourseasone · 1 month ago

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CHAPTER 001 ✽ 404 : LIFE NOT FOUND

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You have absolutely no idea what to do with yourself anymore.

Not in a dramatic, life-crisis sort of way (okay, maybe just a little bit) but more in the way someone feels when they’ve just finished the last episode of something they’ve been waiting for what feels like forever to come back.

After nearly three agonizing years, season two of Weak Hero Class, the gritty, beautifully tragic drama you’ve been obsessed with for years, finally dropped. Naturally, you did what any self-respecting, chronically online fan would do — you devoured all eight episodes in one single night like a man possessed. It didn’t matter that it was four in the morning. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t eaten a proper meal since noon. And it definitely didn’t matter that you had promised yourself you would savor it slowly this time. That lie lasted maybe twenty minutes.

Which brings us to now.

You’re lying flat on your back, sprawled out across your bed in a perfect starfish formation, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling like you’re expecting it to whisper life advice to you. It’s been at least twenty minutes of pure post-binge malaise. The high from the finale has already worn off, and in its place, an aching void has taken root — one only a maybe completed series can leave behind.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

With a groan that would make a dying animal proud, you lazily roll onto your stomach. You blindly grope around the covers for your phone, fingers brushing over crumpled sheets and yesterday’s snack wrappers until they finally close around it. You don’t even lift your head. Just unlock the screen with muscle memory alone and launch the app you always turn to in moments like this; the rabbit hole of character edits and fan-made montages. It’s your new ritual.

Because while the show might be over, your obsession sure as hell isn’t.

Time becomes a blur. One edit turns into five, then ten. Clips of the characters (well, mostly Seongje) throwing punches in slow motion, overlaid with melancholic and dramatic lighting effects, play on a loop. It’s dramatic. It’s unnecessary. It’s absolutely perfect. You fall deeper into the void, eyes glazed, brain fried, fingers still scrolling.

One hour passes. Then another. And another.

And still, you watch.

The outside world becomes irrelevant. The room is dark, lit only by the soft flicker of your screen. You don’t even realize how much time has passed until your phone screen dims and flashes the dreaded red battery icon — 1%.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter, finally peeling your eyes away from a slow-motion Seongje edit.

The panic is immediate, but also extremely preventable, given that your phone had kindly informed you about the battery dying an hour ago. Naturally, you ignored it like any responsible adult who absolutely refuses to move an inch more than necessary.

Now, however, the stakes are real.

With the urgency of someone rescuing a loved one, you force yourself upright. It’s a struggle. You let out a noise that’s half groan, half dramatic sigh, and swing your legs off the bed. Barefoot and blinking against the sudden motion, you trudge toward the end of the bed where your charger should be — where it always is. Sure enough, there it is, plugged into the overloaded power strip beside the nightstand, tangled slightly behind a precarious tower of unread manga and old trophies.

The charger cable, naturally, is just barely too short to reach you comfortably from the bed, and you have to lean over awkwardly to plug your phone in. Still half-distracted by the edit playing in your hand, you don’t notice the t-shirt on the floor beneath you until it’s far too late.

And that’s when it happens.

Your foot slides. Your balance shifts. And time slows.

“Shit—!” you gasp, just before gravity claims you.

You go down painfully hard. The side of your head smacks against the sharp corner of your nightstand with a sickening crack, and you immediately crumple to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

The phone slips from your fingers and lands beside you with a soft thud, screen still glowing. Seongje’s face continues to flicker on the display, paired with a melancholic guitar riff that now sounds oddly distant. Everything sounds distant. The room, the cold floorboards beneath your cheek, even your own breathing.

You try to blink, to move, to fight the haze creeping in around the edges of your vision, but your eyelids feel like lead. Your head is spinning, and a warm trickle down the side of your face confirms what your foggy brain already suspects; you’re bleeding. Badly. You’re on the floor, facedown, limbs awkwardly sprawled, and everything hurts in a distant, muffled way. The pain at your temple pulses like a drumbeat. Your eyelids flutter. Your breathing slows.

It’s like your whole body just… gives up.

And as weird as it sounds, this is the moment you realize something terrifying and oddly cinematic; when people say your life flashes before your eyes before you die?

Yeah, turns out that’s not just poetic bullshit.

Memories surge forward, blurring past like a fast-forwarded movie. Your childhood. The laughter of your parents. Your first bicycle. Childhood birthdays. The time you broke your arm trying to impress your middle school crush with a backflip. Your high school years, filled with half-hearted attempts at passing grades and hallway fights. Laughing with your friends over cheap snacks. Running until your lungs burned during school track meets. Every moment you lived, and every opportunity you let slip away. Every time you told yourself ‘next time’ and never followed through.

You see it all.

And it hits you then — how painfully average your life was. No real achievements to brag about.

Academics? A disaster. You were a terrible student, constantly in trouble, barely passed most of your classes, always skimming by with the minimum required effort. Teachers hated you, or pitied you, but also appreciated you, mostly for your personality. You never really knew what you wanted to be when you grew up, and you never really figured it out. But sports — that was the one thing you were good at. Any game, any ball, any competition you dominated. At least you had those trophies collecting dust somewhere in the living room.

Something to prove you were worth something.

Your thoughts turn to your parents. Your chest tightens.

Mom, Dad…

They really were good people. Way a lot too good. Always patient. Always supportive. Always loving, even when you didn’t deserve it.

And now they’re going to find you tomorrow, facedown and cold on the bedroom floor, blood pooling beneath you. You imagine your mother’s scream, your father’s tears. The horror of it all. The absurd, humiliating detail that will haunt them; you died tripping over a t-shirt while watching fan edits.

They didn’t deserve this. Nobody did.

“What a fucking ridiculous way to die,” you breathe, your voice barely more than air.

It’s the last thing you say.

And then, everything fades. You die in your room, completely alone, your only witness a 12-second edit of Seongje’s smirking face on a cracked phone screen. The music keeps playing.

And that’s it.

That’s how it ends — for a boy with no grand ambitions, but a heart full of feelings, a messy room, and a charger that never quite reached far enough.

Your last thought? This goddamn Seongje edit.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is… absolutely nothing.

There’s no light, no color, no texture — just an infinite blackness stretching out in every direction. It isn’t just dark. It’s complete darkness. The kind that swallows you whole. You blink a few times, thinking maybe your eyes just need to adjust, but no — the void remains. There’s no ceiling. No floor. No sound. Not even the soft hum of ambient noise you’re used to hearing in the background of everyday life.

It’s like the universe pressed pause. And one thing’s for sure: you’re definitely not in your room anymore.

You’re not even sure you’re anywhere at all.

“…What the hell?” you mutter, your voice sounding oddly muffled, like it’s been wrapped in cotton and pushed underwater. Even speaking feels distant. Detached.

Out of instinct, you lift your hand to touch the side of your head — the spot where you smacked into the nightstand just moments before. Or was it minutes ago? Hours? Time already feels blurry. But when your fingers reach your temple, there’s nothing there. No bump, no blood, no ache. In fact, there’s no sensation at all. You move your limbs, watch them respond, but there’s a disconnect — like watching someone else control a body that looks like yours.

You know you’re moving. But you can’t feel yourself move.

It should be terrifying. But weirdly, it’s not.

You feel… fine. More than fine, actually. There’s something eerily peaceful about it — like floating in the warm middle of a dream where none of the usual rules apply.

“Okay,” you mutter, glancing around even though there’s nothing to see. “Definitely a dream. Has to be.”

A lucid dream, probably. You’ve heard of those before — the kind of dream where you know you’re dreaming and can control what happens. It kinda makes sense. This place, this feeling… it’s too surreal to be anything else.

With no real plan, you start walking. Or at least, you think you’re walking. Your legs move, but there’s no floor beneath you. No resistance. No sound of footsteps. Just the strange sensation of motion without movement, like walking through a screensaver. You walk for what could be minutes, or maybe centuries. In this black void, time has no shape. It slips through your fingers like water.

Eventually — though you couldn’t say why — you stop.

Nothing around you has changed. Still the same endless black. But something inside you shifts. A kind of internal nudge. Like a voice whispering, Here. This is the place.

And then, without warning, a sudden, blinding light bursts into existence. You immediately flinch, shielding your eyes with both arms. After so long in total darkness, the light feels almost too violent for your eyes. Your heart lurches. You half-expect to be sucked into some vortex or wake up back in your bed, maybe with a killer headache.

But instead, you hear something.

Not with your ears, but with your mind.

A voice, vast and impossible, echoing from somewhere deep inside your skull, so calm yet a bit commanding;

HOW STRONG DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You crack one eye open cautiously.

The light is gone — just as quickly as it appeared. In its place is a glowing, semi-transparent screen hovering a few inches in front of your face. It’s rectangular, pulsing faintly white, like some sort of high-tech hologram ripped straight out of a science fiction movie.

“…This dream is getting weirder by the second,” you mutter under your breath.

On the screen are some numbers — large, bold, and golden digits running from 1 to 10, clean and crisp against the glowing surface.

The voice repeats, loud and unmistakable;

HOW STRONG DO YOU WANT TO BE?

This time, the screen gently expands, as if encouraging you to answer. You tilt your head, squinting slightly.

“Do I… have to pick one?” you ask aloud, although no one is around to answer.

You stare at the golden numbers a moment, trying to figure out what it all means or what this dream is aiming for. You’re not sure why you have to answer, or what these choices will change, but… well, it’s happening. So you play along.

“Well… why not?”

Without hesitation, you tap the number 10.

No idea what it will do, or if it even matters. The whole thing feels like one of those manhwa plots you love — where the hero wakes up in a whole new world and gets to choose their stats. But this? This is just a dream, right?

No way this is real.

The screen fades briefly, then returns with a new question, just as loud and just as clear inside your head ;

HOW RICH DO YOU WANT TO BE?

The voice returns, echoing deep inside your mind like a strange command. The translucent screen flickers back to life, once again displaying the familiar row of golden numbers, 1 through 10. You let out a breathy laugh.

“How rich do I want to be?” you repeat aloud, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Easy.”

You don’t even pause this time.

“Ten. Duh,” you say with a grin. “Go big or wake up.”

Without hesitation again, you tap the number 10.

Just like before, the display refreshes with a quiet shimmer, like the soft ring of crystal glasses clinking together. It feels oddly satisfying, like hitting the perfect combo in a video game.

HOW RESPECTED DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You blink, expression tightening.

“…Okay, what kind of vague-ass question is that?”

You drag a hand through your hair, frowning at the screen. This one’s trickier than the last. Respect is complicated. Are we talking about fear-respect? Admiration? Public respect? Private? At school? In life?

The screen offers no clues.

You stare at the numbers for a while, brow furrowed. You bite your lip, then shrug it off with a sigh.

“Whatever. This is just a dumb dream anyway,” you mutter, pressing 8. It feels like a safe bet — enough respect to matter, but not so much that it’d make life complicated.

Besides, you don’t want to be too respected. That just sounds like pressure.

HOW INTELLIGENT DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You let out a dry laugh the second the next question pops up.

“Oh finally, something I actually need.”

You don’t hesitate this time — not even for a second. Your finger immediately taps 10, as if it were the most obvious choice in the world.

“Let’s see what being smart feels like for once,” you say with a smirk. “Maybe I’ll actually pass math without cheating. That’d be a nice change.”

You imagine your parents’ faces, proud and beaming for once over something other than sports trophies. You wonder what it would be like to walk into a classroom and know you’re the smartest one there. No pressure. No flukes. Just confidence. That sounds… kind of amazing.

“Too bad it’s all fake,” you add with a sigh. “I’d kill for this in real life.”

HOW INDISPENSABLE DO YOU WANT TO BE?

You exhale a long, weary sigh.

“How many more of these questions am I supposed to answer?” you mutter, frustration creeping into your voice.

This whole thing is starting to feel like some endless, annoying exam. And you hate tests — whether in school or in a dream. You’re already bored out of your mind.

You glance again at the question;

How indispensable do I want to be…?

The weight of the question surprises you. It’s not so straightforward this time.

Being indispensable — being the person everyone needs — sounds tempting, sure. People paying attention, relying on you, wanting you around. But on the other hand, being too indispensable could become a real headache. Expectations piling up, pressure mounting, people clinging to you like a lifeline. That kind of weight might just crush you.

But not being indispensable at all? That’s a worse fate, maybe. Invisible, forgettable, easily replaced.

You tap your chin thoughtfully, chewing over the idea. You like the attention — enough to feel seen — but not so much that you become a prisoner to everyone else’s needs.

“Alright, alright,” you grumble, voice half amused. “Option ten is probably way too much, and anything below five isn’t enough. So…”

With a quick flick of your finger, you choose 7.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

You shrug. It’s just a dream, after all. What’s the worst that could happen?

[ … ]

ARE YOU SURE OF YOUR CHOICES?

Two new words now glow on the screen; YES and NO, both shimmering gold like the rest.

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

“God, it’s like being in a video game with too many dialogue trees,” you mumble. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure. Let’s get this over with.”

You slam your finger on YES without giving it another thought.

The moment you do, the screen begins to dissolve — not like turning off, but more like burning away into ash, scattered by an invisible wind. And suddenly, the black space is back. Completely cold, empty and painfully quiet.

You cross your arms.

“That’s it? All that setup for some cosmic BuzzFeed quiz?” you mutter, scowling into the void. “What a fucking shitty dre—”

You don’t get to finish.

Out of nowhere, a white-hot spike of pain tears through your skull — brutal and blinding, radiating from your temple like fire laced with electricity.

“—GHHk—!”

Your knees buckle. You crash to the ground, hands flying to your head as the agony intensifies. It feels like your brain is swelling inside your skull, like it’s trying to burst out.

No sound escapes your lips, even as your mouth opens in a silent scream. Your vision starts to splinter. Your limbs go numb. Your body shakes violently as wave after wave of unbearable pain crushes down on you. The void itself seems to warp and twist with the force of it — reality folding in on itself.

What the hell is happening?!

Just as suddenly as it started, your strength gives out. Your arms slump to your sides. Your vision fades into static. Your thoughts unravel, scattered like paper in a storm.

And then, for the second time that day, you collapse.

Falling backward, swallowed once again by the dark.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ the first chapter of this fanfic is finally out and the reader is already dead lmao ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀) i really hope this chapter didn't confuse you too much because i know there's a lot going on right away lmao but as you know, it's necessary for the plot!

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @slovesyouuu @starrykie @pedifero @iluvkyo @yuuuumii @naelvze @chaotic-world-if-the-j @leftpoetrymoon @aple-piie @exodiam @odevote118 @dumbisme @daichiwkmi @killerd1 @nxxav3rs3 @yourfavoritefreakyhan (let me know if you wanna be added!)

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jessthebaker · 4 months ago

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With Sticks and String

a/n: This fic started as the response to the #writingthroughtheseasons challenge by the wonderful @guiltyasdave and @sizzlingcloudmentality. It developed a life of its own and, uh, grew beyond the original prompt. There will be two definite chapters, and possibly a third?

I did as much research as I could to be mindful of the details of NA, substance addiction, and milestone ceremonies but there will be errors. Please be kind.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Challenge prompt: Dieter in Autumn. “Are we a moment, or a lifetime?” Trust me. You’ll see.

Dieter Bravo x reader

word count: 1.7k-ish

A church basement. A large circle of uncomfortable metal folding chairs. A table at the side with hot water urns, a stack of paper cups, a basket of tea bags and instant coffee sachets. A disused pulpit at one end of the circle for someone to stand and speak.

Dieter stands in the doorway and feels the familiar deja vu. He’s been going in circles for more than a year now, the endless loop of losing control, using, rehab, enforced sobriety, falling into using again. His agent is fed up with his bullshit and finally gave him the “I may be your employee but I’m the only friend you have left, go to rehab and make it work this time or we’re done” speech.

That was two months ago, and he’s done his mandated time at the rehab facility. Now he has to find a NA meeting to attend. He’s been to every NA meeting group in the city over the last few years and never lasted long at any of them. This group is the final one left on the list of available options that gelled with his location and schedule. Not like his schedule was that full anyway.

He notices you at his first meeting and as cliché as it was, there is something different about you. You seem to have the same dark sense of humour as him, the same cheekiness in danger of being stamped out in the name of sobriety. The same marks of near-silent desperation that you can hide from everyone but other addicts. However, the strand of fuzzy yarn running up your legs to connect the pile of fabric on your lap to your bag on the floor is new to him.

After that first meeting, he keeps stealing glances at you from across the circle of chairs. He notices you always have a project in your lap during meetings, your needles clicking softly as a backdrop to the sound of other attendees telling their stories. Sometimes it’s your crochet hook flashing in the light, as your wrist twirls it effortlessly through the air. He’s more fascinated with watching you work than paying attention to the speakers. Your motions are graceful and practiced; you deftly create something out of a jumble of fuzzy string without even looking. It’s like magic to him.

After a few meetings he works up the nerve to say hello to you afterwards. Swap names over weak shitty coffee in flimsy paper cups. A few more meetings, and he sits next to you. A few more weeks, and he asks you about your project. You smirk (got another one, you think to yourself) and show him what you’re working on.

You ask him, “Do you want to have a go?”

“Uh, yeah, if you trust me not to ruin it.”

You scoff lightly. “Don’t worry about ruining anything, it’s crochet. Whatever you fuck up, I can pull back and fix. Just...play around with it.”

You show him the basic stitches, the way to maneuver the hook and where to place it, how to pull up a loop and draw it through. He’s surprised to find he likes it. He works through your row and you show him how to make a turning chain, encourage him to work back through the next row. A soft cough behind you both makes you jump. It’s the meeting leader giving you the wind-up. It’s past time to turn off the lights and lock up. Dieter is surprised to find half an hour has passed in your company.

As you start packing up your project again, you can tell he wants to say something. His eyes are a little wild, his teeth biting at his lip nervously.

“Do you think you could teach me more next week? I think I need something like this. Something to keep - keep the hands busy, you know?”

His hands are always restless, you have noticed this. He’s always fidgeting during meetings, pulling at his coat hems, fiddling with at his pant pockets or the buttons on his lapel, twiddling his earring. Right now as you both stand together, his hands are twitching at his side, making flicking motions as if ashing an invisible cigarette.

“Of course. Come early next week and I’ll show you more.” You beam indulgently at Dieter, and to him it’s as if a shaft of sunlight has put a spotlight on your face.

His face relaxes instantly and a shy half-grin emerges. You get the feeling he has a nice smile when he lets it really show. You secretly wonder if he might have a dimple. You agree on half an hour before the regular meeting time and say your goodnights.

The next week, as promised, you bring a ball of yarn and an extra crochet hook and teach him more of the basics. You get him started with a simple dishcloth project that will fit on his lap during the meeting. You don’t say anything, but you do see that he’s more relaxed with this in hand – he’s not actively working on it during the meeting itself, but he is idly stroking the yarn, turning the partial square around in his hands, rolling and folding and twisting it up. You catch his eye and glance at the wadded up square of crochet stitches in his hands. He looks down too, sees what he’s done subconciously, and gives you a sheepish grin. You wink and grin back.

After that first crochet lesson, your friendship with Dieter grows. You look forward to the weekly meetings in a different way, now. He does too. Beyond the obvious connection of being fellow addicts in recovery, he can talk to you and you don’t stare at him like he’s a nutjob. You enjoy passing down the crafts that have helped you to stay sober these past thirteen years.

And there is the attraction. That doesn't hurt.

You can’t help but stare sometimes when he’s not looking. Does he not realise how handsome he is? Maybe he does. But he doesn’t draw attention to himself that way. Over time he lets slip little details, offhand comments, that give you the impression he used to fuck around but he doesn’t anymore. It makes sense, you think. His celebrity and fame lent itself to partying and access to people as well as drugs. If he’s working this hard to stay sober from substance abuse, maybe he’s also staying away from the rest of it. You try not to let your crush get in the way of your friendship. You know he’s not supposed to get into any relationships for the first year of his recovery, anyway.

For all that, you really, really enjoy watching him work. His broad frame hunches over the project on his lap. Even the longest knitting needles always look tiny in his big hands. To say nothing of a short crochet hook, it’s practically fully hidden in his paws. His brow furrows in concentration and his tongue pokes out subconsciously when he’s trying to maneuver the hook the right way.

For Dieter’s part, he can’t help but stare when you don’t notice. Do you not know how beautiful you are? Maybe you do. But you don’t draw attention to yourself that way. Over time you let slip comments about your past that give him the impression you used to party, but you don’t anymore. It makes sense, he thinks. If you’ve worked hard to stay sober for this long, maybe you’re also staying away from relationships. He tries not to let his crush get in the way of your friendship. He knows he isn’t supposed to get into any relationships for the first year of his recovery anyway.

For all that, he really, really enjoys watching you work. Whatever you’re knitting or crocheting, you make it look effortless. During meetings you sit with your feet crossed neatly underneath you, project in your lap, hands moving deftly through the yarn. Sometimes you don’t even look down, you just move without having to see what your needle or hook is doing. It’s like the tool is an extension of your hands and they work independently of your conscious brain. He wants to know what that feels like.

He’s an eager student. You teach him to crochet first. He wants to be able to “make ALL the things, I don’t want to limit myself!” So you teach him what you know. You teach him to make increases, decreases. Amigurumi toys, granny squares, knitted stockinette. Ribbing, lace, cables, socks, shawls, hats.

He learns to notice mistakes and fix them himself. He teaches himself to alter a pattern to suit his own tastes. He teaches himself to do colourwork through YouTube tutorials, after you admit it’s something you aren't interested in yourself. He figures out what he likes and doesn’t like in his crafting.

Just as Dieter’s path along sobriety has entwined with yours, your lives become more and more entwined over time.

For his six month pin you knit him a slouchy beanie.

For your 14 year pin he crochets you a little stuffed heart, which he presents to you with a shy smile.

For his 1 year pin, you crochet a little stuffed raccoon (his favourite animal) holding the stuffed heart he gave you last year. You’ve embroidered a little word “yes” on the heart.

For your 15 year pin he knits you a simple lace shawl.

For his two year pin, you knit him a handsome scarf and a matching pair of fingerless mittens. (Not too long in the cuff, his tattoos like to be free to breathe.)

For your 16 year pin, he knits you an intricately cabled scarf that he designed himself.

The next year you crochet an afghan together, using your combined stash scraps to make wildly colourful granny squares and crochet them together. Dieter drapes it proudly over the couch in the house you’ve bought together.

When he met you, Dieter was desperate for a hobby to keep his hands busy, to distract himself from the cravings and needing to chase his next high. Thanks to you, he found a different path to the high. Now he chases the euphoria of sinking into a trance as his hands move unconsciously in rhythm with the yarn. The way his brain hums peacefully as he reaches a meditative zen state. He craves the feeling of creating something and watching it grow in his hands.

He loves you, and he loves that you’ve been with him to celebrate every finished project, and every milestone date. Together.

With you, he thinks he can actually do this sobriety thing.

Part 2 is here

Tagging some peeps who were interested in this as a wip!

@toomanytookas @avastrasposts @schnarfer @galway-girlatwork

@grogusmum @jolapeno @bitchwitch1981 @sunnytuliptime @dieterbravobrainrotclub

@ghotifishreads @covetyou

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x gn!reader #dieter bravo x reader #fic: with sticks & string #writingthroughtheseasons #wttschallenge2025 #tw: drug addiction #tw: narcotics anonymous #dieter plays with yarn

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userm3rc · 18 days ago

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Spellbound in the Stacks

ᯓ★ summary; in which at the beginning of the semester, you keep seeing a certain stoic slytherin around the library...and end up getting stuck with him as a partner..what in the world!

⭑.ᐟreaders house is personal preference :3 / open ending ..?

wc; 2.4

cw; none besides reader is super silly *

the light taps of rain pattered on the large window in the back of the library, this week has been oddly dreary. the constant downpours possibly contributing to the somber mood among the students despite the new semester barely beginning..

the usual bubbling chatter heard from the sea of students has dwindled to a quiet murmur throughout the past 5 days, though perhaps the 8 paged essay Snape assigned to your year has a part to play in that. no amount of praying to merlin could get that professor to have mercy on his students despite being 2 weeks into the new year, you'd think you were prepping to publish a book with the amount of coursework he was assigning, but alas the only thing being posted were your grades!

luckily with your newfound dedication to be top of the class this school year (or as top of the class as you can get with Hermione around) , you've been at the library at least 2 hours a day and my has it paid off! you've definitely noticed the difference, for once you're not confused or dosing off in boredom, hell even sometimes you're contributing to the conversation!, finishing your work in class allowing you to have more free time then you've ever experienced during your academic years.

but here's the problem, you're bored. times where you'd be stressing over an assignment or a reading, are now empty. hours of your usually packed schedule (procrastinating on an assignment you swear you can finish 10 minutes before class) is now cleared! which is quite honestly, very possibly, how the quietest slytherin crept to be the object of your affection...

okay that's a bit dramatic. but in your full defense you've always found the infamous Zabini to be quite the looker, I mean who didn't notice him would be a better question to ask.

it wasn't like you were blind. his high cheekbones, slim build, mysterious yet aloof demeanor, and gods don't get you started during the quidditch games. you never paid much attention to the sport, people screaming in the common place about the professional players or about the recent game that just occurred on Hogwarts's very own pitch was enough to keep you in the loop (involuntarily) . but on the rare occasions you'd attend a home game to support your house, you couldn't help yourself from staring a bit too hard at the rumored pompous zabini, chest heaving from the obvious effort he's putting in, the thin layer of sweat over his face... he looked , well, delectable. and its not as if staring a little bit longer than usual ever hurt anybody! he has quite a way of making boring classes bearable, doodling on his paper or actively reading along the textbook while the professor is going on and on, dare I say its inspiring, and possibly the reason you've taken studying seriously this year...

─────────

which brings us back to present day, the nonstop rain (which you must say does wonders for studying) creating a blanket of comfort in the library, where you've also managed (by a miracle of merlin) to see the Blaise Zabini every time you've entered. almost like clockwork everyday of the semester, you catch him in a dark corner surrounded by books or pieces of parchment paper seemingly working on assignments or a reading, but these past few days you can only assume he's working on snapes demanding book essay.

a part of you is tempted to ask him if this was a norm of his, visiting the library daily. its not as if you'd know, you've only recently started dedicating yourself to your studies, for all you know he could've started this ritual his first year. but you can't help but notice how he's always alone in these visits, no one from his house surrounding him causing a ruckus ,which is usually the scene in the dining hall, or classes, or hell even the hallway. matter of fact, blaise is always with his friends, what's with the random split from them? this question deeply bothers you the more you think about it,

and while lost in thought about this demanding issue, you don't realize you've been staring. not just staring at anything, no, staring straight at zabini. but, as if an act of fate, before you could tear your eyes away and act as if nothing happened and pretend you've been studying the whole time, (like you should've been) you realize somethings staring back.

no not something, silly. blaise.

hes staring deeply into your soul as if he knows exactly what you've been thinking. how your eyes have been lingering on him these past few weeks, how he's slowly been taking over your mind as you see him everyday in class or the library, hell somehow even in the dining hall during your meals. you immediately feel sick to your stomach, as if you've been caught doing the most heinous thing by a trusted adult, as quickly as you can manage, grabbing all of your belongings and bolting out of the library. deciding that was enough 'studying' for the day and actually! you deserve a break for all the hard work you've been doing.

rushing back to your common room not realizing you've left your last quill at that damned library desk, chest rising like you've ran a marathon (realistically you did), heart pounding, boulder still in your gut. thankfully your friends are too engrossed in their previous argument about merlin knows what, they don't realize how frazzled you look and demand you pick who the obvious winner of this squabble is. fortunately you use this opening to push the incident to the back of your mind and fully focus on the very important issue at hand, taking all the facts (and snarky comments) into careful consideration as you take ones side.

they quickly lost interest in the conversation once a winner was picked, and you realize you need to finish the rough draft of snapes essay, remembering he'll be checking them tomorrow. rummaging around in your bag (thankfully) you find your papers, but no quill, cursing as you speed walk to the library praying to whoever was watching over you that you'd make it in time before detention (silently cheering as you do) and bee lined towards your dedicated study spot only to realize, its missing. exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm your already frazzled nerves, you chalk it up to a student seeing the quill unattended and snagging it. not as if you can blame them, you would've probably stolen it too in their position, actually you believe that's exactly how you came to be in possession of it.

ending your night off begging a friend to borrow their quill was not ideal, but hey, the rough draft got completed.

─────────

the following day was as uneventful as ever, the most entertainment coming from overhearing a griffindor quarrel with a slytherin in the hallways between classes.

entering the damp potions classroom used to fill you with dread, that was until recently , when you actively started understanding the curriculum being taught. patiently waiting for Snape to enter the classroom, you start to overhear peoples conversations, mostly students talking about the upcoming games, some already excited for holiday breaks as if they didn't have months to wait in-between.

as you were about to really indulge in someones story, Snape enters delivering a line, that in retrospect, should've had you trembling in your seat.

'the rough drafts that i...expect are completed, will be peer reviewed and worked on with said peer until it is finished.. if said draft isn't complete, you will come to me privately and it will be handled from there.'

quickly glancing to your friend to form a silent agreement of partnership, as you begin to take your papers out, Snape starts to call out names, and that's when you realize this wasn't a chosen partner activity.. 'no sweat' you think to yourself , 'there's a 1 in 30 chance I get paired with someone I dislike, this is doable'.

in the midst of you giving yourself positive affirmations, you hear

'your name and Blaise Zabini'. and that's when you realize you sorely miscalculated. not taking in account the only other person who you've had an awkward interaction with as a possibility of being your partner, you slowly look over at him and see he- well actually he's not in his usual seat! well thank merlin! he must be out sick or skipping class (you don't admit feeling a bit bad about him being under the weather), you've been saved as of this moment!

that was until you looked to your left expecting to see your friend and were instead, met with a familiar sight of slightly downturned brown eyes that stare deeply into your soul that you realize your second mistake of the day. not only was he in attendance, he knew exactly who you were already with no need of an introduction, and made his way over to you. now you can't deny a part of you feeling a bit flattered, the infamous blaise knowing who you were, well, dare i say anyone would be honored, but the feeling of twisted pride pales in comparison of your shock and anxiety.

collecting your items and thoughts, you've never actually taken time to think about just how, quiet he truly is. yes you've watched him here and there, seeing how he seamlessly blends into a conversation with his friends, however you're not his friend, and he's not speaking to you.

using whatever dignity and confidence you have left, you decide to initiate the conversation with him. I mean, you have a draft to get through and an essay to finish! no man is worth messing up your academics!

'well, im your name, as you already know I guess. would you like to switch drafts now? or have you finished yours? sorry to assume-'

stopping before you start rambling and making unnecessary comments, you look at him waiting for an answer.

to which he keeps a blank, almost bored (ouch!) look on his face as he lazily grabs his papers and hands them to you, while simultaneously grabbing yours,

'here. take them. we can switch them at the library later today.'

and before you can process he even spoke to you, he's gone back to his friends as if he was never there. face mildly flushed as you replay his words and dissect the whole situation, mission accomplished! you weren't paired with someone lazy and did the assignment, and even got him to talk to you! but on the other hand barely spoke and abandoned you at first chance.. 'well, you can't win them all! might as well as take the wins where you get them', is what you chant to yourself the rest of the day before you head to the library on your usual schedule.

─────────

assuming (and praying, which you acknowledge you've done quite a bit this week!) blaise would be at the library at his regular time , due to his lack of communication and your lack of confidence to follow up, you anxiously go about the rest of your day.

looking around the library you notice Blaise's usual corner is empty, heart dropping as you deeply exhale and walk to your designated study spot, accepting that you missed his visit and silently cursed yourself for not forcing him to give an exact time. glancing at your table, nearly dropping your bag as you see your assigned parter patiently waiting for you to arrive.

'oh- hey sorry if you've been waiting for me for a long time, its just , you never said a time and I assumed that meant regular time since you're always here when I am and- yeah.'

you sputter while speed walking over to the table, finally putting your things on the desk as you glance up at him, noticing a faint smile (or is it a smirk?) on his face as he looks at you.

trying not to word vomit on him again, as you both settle into a silence preparing to discuss the drafts and work on them together to abide by your teachers demands, you space out while you prepare all of your items and don't realize blaise placing a (your) quill down infront of you, it wasn't until he started speaking you snapped back into reality,

'you left this here last time. assumed you'd need it for your work.'

doing a double take between him and the quill, a loss for words as you piece together that he's seen you in now 4 embarrassing situations within the last 24 hours, and took your quill after your swift exit yesterday, just to return it to you.

'ah yes! that's mine! haha thank you for grabbing it and not stealing it- not that I think you would or anything'

feeling your face flush at the weight of everything from the past few days as your words die on your tongue, mentally prepping for him to think you're weird and refuse to work with you after this, and deciding the best thing to do is keep your eyes trained on the desk to prevent any further mistakes on your part. grabbing your previously lost and now found quill from the desk fiddling with it in an attempt to calm yourself and think of the next course of action to survive this godforsaken assignment, you hear an (exasperated?) exhale next to you followed with

'it was really no issue. I have no reason to steal your quill... are you ready to discuss the assignment?'

and you must be losing your mind because you swear his tone seemed a lot warmer delivering that line than you've ever heard him speak before, and you can't help but looking at him and oh,

his face has dropped from that aloof guarded look to such a soft and cautious one...

quickly registering he's trying his best to comfort you, you come to realize this man doesn't hate you, he's willingly engaging with you , and not making some devious snarky comment about your mistakes like any slytherin usually would... you've been freaking out for no reason! gosh you let the anxiety get the better of you, mentally kicking yourself for you actions you begin to speak,

'yes of course! so after reading your draft I saw...'

launching into conversation about the assignment, you discern the best choice of action is to meet him halfway. this was the most effort you've ever seen blaise put into well, anything! and you surely don't want to mess this opportunity up.

꩜ I was not expecting to write so much... sorry guys it came to me in a vision </3 blaise does NOT have enough attention and it kills me

thinking about making a pt 2 to this depending how people react to it... anywho I hope u guys enjoyed it & pls don't hesitate to send reqs!!! <3333

#harry potter x reader #blaise zabini x reader #blaise zabini #harry potter #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin x reader #blaise x reader #Blaise Zabini

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defmaybe · 10 months ago

Text

I Love You, I’m Sorry

Purple Kiss’ Jang Eunseong/Dosie x Male Reader

1.3k words

Song: Gracie Abrams - I Love You, I’m Sorry

See also: Rockland

Some warning on a discussion of depression

A/N: Part of @mintwithchoco’s prompt exercise!!! It’s very exposition dump-y so apologies for that. Thanks for reading!

–

You were the best but you were the worst

As sick as it sounds, I loved you first

I was a dick, it is what it is

A habit to kick, the age-old curse

–

The sun glares down onto the street you’re walking on. The buildings don’t help in shielding it in the afternoon. To add, they even reflect the light onto you even more. You want a place to cool down; you need a place to cool down.

You pace yourself through the bustling heart of the city, looking for just a cold whisper, but everywhere just seems to be so eager to burn you down to shreds. The gray skyscrapers stare down at you, adding melancholy to the street even more.

You stride and stride in the hellish heat, until…

It’s predictable: the modern interior, white and brown furniture, just so ready to be snapped and posted on Instagram. You hurry into the cafe, trying to catch the breeze of the hard-working air conditioner as much as possible. In the meantime, you look around for a seat for your iced tea, until you meet an eye in the patrons.

Maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s a coincidence, but you just can’t walk away now.

She’s in a light blue blouse and her ripped jeans, hands holding her iced latte. She seems to be working on something on her computer.

Back in college, you failed and failed to find that precious rhythm in engineering. You were far from being a failure, to say, but your social life was dry enough to have her, a medical student who lived miles away, as your closest friend after high school ended. And one day, it fell down. Your closeness induced the dormant codependency within, and she left. It’s the memory you’ve been striving to erase and the mistake you’ve been trying to correct ever since.

It would’ve been easy if you just gave her silence, but there has to be a few dramatic scenes, which include ‘I fucking hate you’ or ‘I can’t say that I love you’. This doesn’t even cover the flurries and flurries of messages yet, up until where she blocked you, and you blocked her.

It’s Jang Eunseong–or sometimes Dosie, the name that has been aching inside you ever since.

Slowly, she reaches forward to get her purse on the opposite chair. She nods while giving you a faint smile.

“Iced Latte, please,” you tell the barista.

Slowly, you walk towards her table, still trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

“Sweetness?” They respond.

Slowly, you sit down in the chair. Its legs creak as you drag it across the floor.

“Low, thanks.”

Slowly, Dosie starts the proper conversation as you sit down, face-to-face with her for the first time in almost a decade.

“So, how are you?”

A forced smile exudes. You think of an answer that’s enough to garner her attention, but not too desperate. “I’m fine.”

Her sudden departure left you so bereft to where medication is involved. Valdoxan, Lorazepam, Rivotril, Fluoxetine, Trazodone, you name it. You were lucky that you have lived to this exact day even.

Darkness loomed over you, thoughts looped, words lamented with trembles. And to say, it was all your fault for making such a promising relationship to the ugly crash by yourself. You inflicted yourself with this pain.

The waiter brings your coffee to you, the same as hers.

“Doing anything?” She wants more than a ‘fine’.

You give in. “I’m a photographer now, modelling stuff, you know.”

“You’ve always wanted to be one, aren’t you?”

“It’s more fun than being a programmer, definitely.”

A small chuckle escapes Dosie.

“How are you, though? No one told me about you all these years,” you brush your rinsing tears away with a question mark.

“I’m-” She pauses and nods, lips curling inward, eyes pointing away for a second. “Fine, really. I just got promoted at my hospital.”

It’s either a doctor or an engineer here—the path to stability. And if the contrast between the path isn’t stark enough. There’s a hatred between you two to separate them even further.

“So you’re becoming the hospital manager, aren’t you?” chuckling, you say.

Dosie laughs, hands failing to cover her mouth. “Not really, haha, still a department’s second-in-command.” The air seems to lighten up, not suppressing your smile anymore.

“Well, good for you.”

“Anyone yet?” She inquires again, eyes focused on you.

“Friend of a friend.” Another fake, faint smile with a truth. “You?”

“Same shift, on and off, really.”

It’s swift, the way it just landed and took off, robbing you of any sentiment you may deserve. You’ve played this moment back and forth for too many times during the years apart. But when it just comes and goes like this, you just wish she’d ask for more.

You continue, “Do you remember–,” you halt.

She forces out a smile, matching your eyes for a split second.

“I mean–no, I shouldn’t do this, I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“Hey.” Dosie reaches out to you. “It’s fine. I’m your fri–”

Dosie stops in her tracks; resolve falters, causing you to look back up at her. Her eyes are searching for the right excuse in the crowd outside.

“I’m sorry.”—you struggle to hold back the tears welling in your eyes—“I don’t think I should do this.”

Your voice is quivering.

Dosie opens her mouth without a sound, an unknown word stuck in her throat, whatever it might be. Maybe it’s lost in the chatter of the patrons; maybe it’s lost in the piano from the speakers; maybe it’s lost in the huffing sounds of the coffee machine.

Maybe it’s lost in herself.

“So,” Dosie finally breaks another chain of tranquil, and herself, unsure, yet they bind themselves back as fast as they were ripped apart. You two fell into another gap.

Maybe it’s best that you just stop here.

“I guess I should go,” you say, without any destination in your mind. You adjust yourself to slide the chair out.

“Wait.” As you step, Dosie stops you with her shaky voice. Your feet are still, one leading the other. You can’t quite make out what she's going to say next: an insult, a question, an apology? They teeter inside your head to decide what you can’t choose.

You turn back to meet her anxious look—lips quiver, latte in the mug she’s holding up to her chin vibrating as she puts it down.

Thump.

“I’m–,” Dosie turns the gears in her head, seeking the right word in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you’re the one who says it. It can’t be the end here, it can’t be, but at least it might be better than those damned years. You turn back away. “I’m sorry that I didn’t fix myself for you.”

“No, no, no, no,” she climbs the scale with each syllable, hands waving off your guilt. She bends forward, is it to see you closer? “I should’ve been there for you, but I was just-”

You look back, seeing that the composure she has tried to keep during the minutes is crumbling.

“I was selfish,” she says, husk lingering in the statement.

“No, Dosie, it was me,” you respond. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess.”

“I–,” Dosie stops before another apology comes out, careful on her next words.

“Will I- Will I see you again?” She breaks the train into another question, head tilting, brows furrowing. Her now-hoarse voice is blended with the piano.

“Maybe.”

–

I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad

I stare at the crash, it actually works

Making amends, this shit never ends

I’m wrong again, wrong again

#dosie #dosie purple kiss #dosie angst #purple kiss #purple kiss angst #kpop fanfic #kpop angst #Youtube #Spotify

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wlw-imagines · 2 months ago

Text

Crawling to Safety - Teddy Altman x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)

cw: war zones, injury, blood, etc. (also bad writing, there's only so many googling of facts i can survive)

summary: Years after serving together as medics in a warzone, you and Teddy Altman reunite at Grey Sloan Memorial and slowly rekindle a love that never got the chance to fully bloom. After surviving a hospital collapse and confessing your feelings in the rubble, you both realise how important you are to each other.

Part of Maylancholy 2025: Day Six, crawling to safety. @may-lancholy

It was always hard being the new one - anywhere. Your first day of school? Your first job at 15? Your first day with the army? All terrifying. This was no different.

The hallway smells like antiseptic, lavender soap and... something else. That strange combination unique to hospitals and nowhere else. You're used to it by now, plus it's better conditions than you were used to as a soldier.

You're doing your best to remember your way around and remember new names. You're mumbling them to yourself, repeating them again and again in the vain hope they'll stick by lunchtime. You round a corner, flipping through a patient chart, head down, heart steady.

Until it isn’t.

She’s standing at the nurse’s station. Blonde hair pulled into a familiar twist. Light catching on the thin line of a surgical mask looped under her chin. Her laugh, soft but edged, carries even through the hum of pagers and footsteps.

Teddy.

The world stills.

She looks up. Sees you.

Everything about her face freezes, her posture, her hands, her smile. For a second, she’s a statue of the woman you once knew. And then her eyes flicker. There is recognition, disbelief, something too complicated to name, before she schools her expression back into neutral.

You don’t manage that much. Your heart’s somewhere in your throat.

“Dr. Altman,” someone calls. A nurse. A lifeline, calling out a name that you definitely will not be needing to rehearse.

She nods, barely, and walks away. Doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t look back.

And just like that, history breathes itself back to life in the air between you.

You don’t say anything that first day. Or the next. Just keep your head down, your rounds efficient, your charts double-checked.

You’ve worked too hard to lose focus now. But she’s everywhere. Scrubbed into trauma surgery. Discussing a cardiac consult at the end of the hall. Her voice curling under doors and through vents, memory-soaked.

Eventually, you’re scheduled on the same case. MVA. Crush injuries. Emergency thoracotomy.

“Dr. Altman, Dr. Y/L/N,” Bailey says, nodding at you both. “Get in there.”

Teddy doesn’t look at you until you’re scrubbed and masked, gloved and sterile, standing over the open chest of a young woman whose heart is doing its best to stop.

But when she does look over, it’s like no time’s passed at all.

“On my mark,” she says, voice even.

You pass her the retractor without needing to be asked.

She clamps the bleeder like it’s nothing. You suction. She sews. You close. It’s seamless. Rhythmic. A dance you didn’t forget how to do, even if you told yourself you had.

Outside the OR, you both strip gloves in silence. Peel off caps. Neither of you moves to walk away.

Teddy finally breaks it. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t know you were either.”

She nods. Doesn’t say more.

But she doesn’t walk away this time.

That night, long after the trauma bay’s been cleaned and the halls have emptied to soft echoes, you find her in the resident lounge, a forgotten cup of coffee cradled in both hands, gaze unfocused on the dark window.

“You still take it black,” you say, gently.

She glances over. Her expression is unreadable, but her voice is quieter than you remember.

“Some things don’t change.”

You take the seat beside her.

The silence stretches, but it’s not sharp anymore.

It’s soft. Almost familiar.

Like maybe, just maybe, you’re both still learning how to breathe in each other’s presence again.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Kuwait. 112 degrees in the shade, dust curling off the horizon like smoke. The air hangs heavy, every breath filtered through sweat and sand. It’s your third day on base and already your boots feel too tight, your uniform too stiff, your bones too tired.

You're elbow-deep in a busted field stretcher when someone kicks a rock your way. It skitters across the sand, landing just beside your hand.

“You look like you’re losing a fight with that thing.”

You glance up, squinting against the sun and there she is.

Captain Altman. Blonde hair tied back under a faded cap, dog tags clinking softly with every step. She’s got a hydration pack slung over one shoulder, grease under her nails, and a smirk that’s half challenge, half curiosity.

You don’t know who she is yet. Not really. Just the medic who stitched up two soldiers in half the time it should’ve taken yesterday. Just the woman who didn’t flinch when someone vomited blood on her boots. Just the one everyone calls “Teddy,” even though her uniform reads “Theodora Altman.”

You tilt your head. “You offering to help or just heckling from the cheap seats?”

She grins, dropping to a crouch beside you. “Depends. Do you bite?”

You arch a brow. “Only when I’m cornered.”

That makes her laugh... a quick, warm sound that feels wildly out of place in a camp surrounded by sandbags and distant mortar echoes.

She grabs the wrench from your kit without asking, reaches in, and loosens a bolt like she’s done it a hundred times. Maybe she has.

“I’ve got the trick for these,” she says. “They freeze up in the heat. You’ve got to angle the tension release manually.”

You watch her hands. Steady. Efficient. A little too fast for someone who should be taking her time.

“You always jump in like this?”

She shrugs. “Only when I see someone drowning in broad daylight.”

You side-eye her. “You call this drowning?”

“I call it endearing.”

You don’t blush (not really) but the heat behind your ears spikes, and you’re grateful for the camouflage of sweat and dust.

The stretcher gives with a creak. She pulls back, wiping her hands on her pants.

“There. Saved you the embarrassment of losing a fight to military-issue gear.”

You stare at her for a beat. “Thanks.”

She leans back on her heels, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to place you. Then, without preamble, “You’re new.”

You nod. “Transfer from Kandahar.”

“Altman,” she offers, sticking out her hand like this is a normal introduction and not one made in the middle of a makeshift warzone.

You take it. Firm grip. Warm palm.

“Y/N,” you reply.

There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, dust swirling at your feet, dog tags glinting in the sun.

She smiles. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

You don’t know it yet, but she’s right.

And that moment, that strange, charged little nothing of a moment, will echo in the space between you for years to come.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The Grey Sloan ER is chaos, as always. Alarms, overhead pages, and a gurney being shoved into a bay with more urgency than grace. You sidestep a nurse and nearly trip over an unplugged vitals monitor, muttering under your breath.

And then, with an audible snap and the kind of wheeze only ancient hospital machinery can manage, the splint arm of the crash bed you’re leaning on breaks clean off in your hand.

You freeze, staring at the broken metal like it might fix itself out of shame.

Of course, that’s exactly when you hear it, the unmistakable soft laugh behind you, and a familiar voice that hasn’t stopped living in the corner of your mind.

“You still losing fights with military-grade equipment?”

You turn slowly.

Teddy Altman is standing a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of her scrubs, an unreadable expression on her face, equal parts amusement and something quieter. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy bun, strands coming loose at her temples. She looks tired. Still beautiful. Still unfair.

You hold up the broken piece like it’s Exhibit A. “In my defense, this one is only medical-grade. Has nothing on the good stuff.” Your sarcasm dripping off you.

Teddy bites back a smile. It tugs at the edge of her mouth anyway. “You never know, maybe the military stuff has improved since Kuwait.”

“Doubt it,” you mutter, crouching down to inspect the damage. “The hinges are just as shot. Probably hasn’t been serviced since the building was put up.”

She stays quiet for a beat, then steps a little closer, not quite beside you, but within reach.

“You want help?” she asks, voice soft. Careful.

You glance up. There’s something wary in her posture. Like if she leans in too far, she might lose her footing again. Might lose you again.

You shake your head lightly. “I remember the trick.”

And you do, the angle, the tension release, the bolt that sticks if you don’t come at it just right. It’s not the same bed, but it’s close enough. Your fingers work from muscle memory, and it feels oddly like muscle memory of her. Of sand and heat and banter that meant more than either of you could say.

Teddy watches you for a few seconds. You can feel her gaze like pressure against your skin.

“You were good at that,” she says finally. “Learning the rhythm of things. Fast.”

You don’t look at her. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

A breath. Heavy. Then, softer, “No. You didn’t.”

You finish tightening the last bolt, test the arm, and give a satisfied nod. “There. Embarrassment averted.”

“I dunno,” Teddy says, and this time there’s a flicker of warmth in her voice, a real smile, faint but genuine. “I kind of liked watching you struggle.”

You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You’re slipping, Altman. That almost sounded like flirting.”

She meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. But something changes, the teasing quiets, like a tide pulling back before it can get too high.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she says, not quite under her breath.

You blink. “Fixing the crash bed or...?”

She exhales a laugh, dry and self-conscious. “Both. Maybe.”

There’s a beat of silence. The ER hums around you. And then you stand, dusting your hands, not quite brushing past her but close.

"I'm not sure I can handle that kind of indecision. Can't fix me as easily as these beds." You aim for a jokey tone, but end darker than you meant. Either way, it got your point across.

You leave before she can respond. Not sure what you want from this conversation. You're both better at leaving than you'd like to admit, you can feel yourself slipping in to old roles.

Maybe some things just aren't meant to be.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The tent smells like iodine and dirt. Outside, the wind kicks up another swirl of sand, raking it against the canvas like fingers clawing at the seams. But inside, everything’s still. Still and too quiet.

You crouch beside her, a roll of gauze in one hand, antiseptic in the other. She’s sitting on a cot, forearm stretched out, split open by shrapnel no bigger than a fingernail. It shouldn’t be serious, you’ve seen worse, done worse. But still, your hands shake a little as you clean the wound.

She watches you. Not flinching. Not speaking.

“You always take care of me,” she says after a beat.

You tape the last piece of gauze down, thumb brushing the edge of her skin. “Somebody has to.”

Teddy smiles, soft, tired. Like she’s been waiting for you to say that.

Your hand stays there longer than it needs to. Just resting on her wrist, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse. You think about all the things you can’t say here, in this tent, in this place where people disappear before you get to know their middle names. Where love feels like a luxury no one’s allowed.

She leans in before you can overthink it. Kisses you, quick, warm, desperate. Just once.

It feels like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

But the moment she pulls back, her eyes change. She straightens. Clears her throat.

“Thanks for the patch job,” she says, voice clipped.

You watch her recede into professionalism like she’s diving for cover. You want to ask what that was. You want to say don’t do that. You want to kiss her again, slower this time. Mean it.

But instead, you nod. Collect the wrappers. Pretend your heart isn’t in your throat.

“Anytime,” you say.

You leave the tent before she can say anything else. You leave the tent before she can leave you.

And she lets you go.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Grey Sloan runs on caffeine, adrenaline, and emotional landmines. You and Teddy work around each other like old ghosts, sharing space, pretending the air between you isn’t charged.

At first, it’s just that. Space. Cold professionalism. The occasional glance that lingers too long in OR lighting. Civil, strained silence in elevators. Awkward goodbyes in scrub rooms.

But slowly, and with the help of that broken gurney, something shifts.

It starts with small things. She hands you a cup of coffee from the old pot at the nurse's station one night without a word. You don’t drink it, but you hold it, let it warm your palms. She doesn’t look at you when she hands it over, but her fingers brush yours. On purpose, maybe.

Then there’s the case, a ten-hour trauma surgery. You and Teddy scrub in together. The patient crashes halfway through. Everyone else looks to you, but you already know what she’s thinking. You hand her the right tool before she asks. She meets your eyes over the drape.

Later, alone in the on-call room, she sits beside you on the edge of the cot. You’re both too tired to pretend you don’t remember what it’s like to sleep two feet apart. In a tent. In a warzone. Your knees touch. Neither of you moves.

“I keep thinking about that night,” she says suddenly.

You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at the wall like it might answer for you.

“I kissed you,” she says softly. “And then I... you left. But it was me and I-”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You did.”

“I know.”

You turn to look at her then. Really look. Her face is drawn, but her eyes, her eyes are the same. Brave and terrified. Full of things she never says.

“Why did you push me away? I tried again because I thought... I don't know.”

Teddy exhales like she’s been holding that breath for years. “Because I loved you. And that felt too dangerous.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

You reach for her hand. She lets you.

This time, no tents. No explosions. Just two surgeons in too-bright fluorescent light, surrounded by the echo of what almost was.

“Maybe we try again now,” you say. “Slower this time. No running.”

She nods. Presses her shoulder to yours. Doesn’t speak, but doesn’t move away.

The next morning, she brings you real coffee. And a blueberry muffin.

You don’t call it anything. Not yet.

But she starts walking you to your car after shifts. You start texting her when it rains.

She spends the night at your place, once. Then twice.

When you brush her hair off her cheek before bed, she closes her eyes and whispers, “Stay.”

You do.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was one of the worst nights of the tour.

Three mass-casualty arrivals. Two DOAs. One young soldier with shrapnel in his chest that you couldn’t save, even though you tried until your arms shook and the tent spun.

Teddy hadn’t said a word since.

You found her sitting on a cot behind the triage tent, her hands still stained with blood, her scrubs damp with sweat and sand and something heavier. The desert wind whipped through the canvas, dry and sharp, but she didn’t flinch. Just sat there, hollow-eyed and silent, like she was trying not to come apart.

You knelt in front of her, quietly. Reached for her arm, she didn’t stop you, and unwrapped the dirty gauze from where she’d scraped her elbow during the chaos. She’d been moving patients like she was made of steel.

“Still taking care of me, huh?” she said, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Yeah... somebody has to.” You repeat the same words, too tired to give her something new, something more. The words don't hit the same. It's been different... since. You crave her.

The antiseptic stung. She hissed, just barely, then smiled. Barely.

Your hands lingered, bandage half-tied, heart half-broken.

You didn’t mean to lean in.

But you did.

And she met you there, halfway.

Her lips were chapped. Yours tasted like salt and adrenaline. It wasn’t a kiss made for fairy tales. It was desperation and comfort, grief and needing something to hold on to before the next siren went off.

She pulled back first. Guilt already blooming in her eyes. Regret, not for the kiss, but for letting it happen. For how much it meant.

“No, Teddy-” You tried to ground her, thinking this time you had it right. Maybe she would stay, maybe you would.

She stood. Pulled on her jacket. Didn’t look at you when she said, “Get some sleep.”

Then she was gone, leaving the tent flaps swaying behind her.

Hours later, when the med bay finally went quiet, you fell asleep on a cot in the corner, your arm curled around her jacket like it might make her stay.

She didn’t wake you when she came back.

She just tucked her dog tag into your hand.

You woke up to it tangled in your fingers, still warm.

And her gone again.

But you kept it.

You always did.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It starts with a smell.

Gasoline. Acrid, sharp, metallic in the back of your throat. You’d only just noticed it, halfway through restocking surgical kits in the basement supply hallway, tucked between the boiler room and the old lab. You paused, frowned. Something about the air felt wrong. Too still. Too hot.

The hospital hum carried on above you, the clatter of gurneys, faraway voices, overhead paging, but here, down in the bones of the building, it was quiet. Almost peaceful.

Then the light flickers.

Then the floor trembles.

A low, guttural groan splits the silence. You don’t even have time to process it before a deafening crack tears through the ceiling above.

And the world collapses.

You don’t scream. There’s no time. A beam falls, the ceiling gives way, and something huge slams into your shoulder and back. knocking you flat, pinning you to the tile. You can’t breathe. There’s dust in your lungs, blood in your mouth, your vision swimming with sparks.

Then… nothing. For a moment. Or maybe minutes. Time warps in the dark.

You come to with your face pressed to tile, grit in your teeth, something warm trickling down your temple. You try to sit up, but pain lances through your ribs. You scream, or try to, but it comes out hoarse and strangled.

Smoke thickens around you. Somewhere nearby, water hisses from a burst pipe, and sparks sizzle from exposed wires. You taste copper. Your ears ring. There’s no way out.

And then-

“Y/N!”

Her voice.

Your heart stutters so hard it hurts.

“Teddy!” you rasp, coughing hard. “Teddy, where are you?”

Another groan. Metal shifting. The sound of something - someone - dragging across debris.

“I-I’m here!” she gasps. “West corridor. My leg- I can’t, fuck, I can't move-”

Her voice is thin. Weak. Your blood runs cold.

“Teddy, stay with me,” you shout, already clawing your way forward with your good arm. “Keep talking... just keep talking.”

“I thought- I thought you were upstairs,” she cries. “I was coming to find you.”

You choke back a sob. Of course she was.

You push. Crawl. One arm, one knee. Over glass, tile, rubble. Your whole body screams. Every breath is fire. But it doesn’t matter.

You’d crawl through hell for her. You have before.

A flicker of movement- then you see her. Through a mangled doorway, bathed in the red pulse of emergency lights. She’s slumped against the wall, her leg slick with blood, her hand pressed uselessly to the wound.

“Teddy,” you breathe, dragging yourself the last few feet.

You drop beside her and immediately apply pressure. She winces hard, teeth gritted. Her other hand reaches blindly and finds yours. Grips tight.

“We always find each other,” she whispers, voice broken with pain.

“Even in hell,” you whisper back.

You press your forehead to hers, your breaths are shallow and ragged. Some blood pools beneath you both, the corridor still groaning under its own weight.

And in the half-dark, you say nothing else. Just hold on.

In case this is it.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The dog tag sat heavy against your chest for weeks after she left. Heavier still than your rifle. Heavier than your breath.

Teddy didn’t say goodbye. You woke to an empty cot and the faint smell of her shampoo still clinging to the blanket. She was gone by first light, reassigned to a different base, closer to the front, they said. No explanation. No request from command. Just gone.

You tried to hate her for it.

You tried to rip the tag from your neck the next morning. Got as far as tugging it halfway over your head before you stopped, chest tight, throat burning, hand shaking.

You put it back on. Quietly. Like a secret prayer.

And then you got your own transfer orders.

Different country. Same war. Sandier this time. Less stable. You didn’t ask questions. You just packed.

You didn’t know she’d be there until you stepped off the transport truck and saw her silhouette framed in the distance, shoulders squared, blonde hair tucked under a sweat-soaked cap. Your boots hit the ground. Your heart did, too.

Teddy didn’t move when she saw you. Didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. But her eyes locked on yours like a radio frequency finally tuning in. A breath passed between you.

Then she turned away and vanished into the tent.

You worked two rows down. She was triage, you were surgical intake. Close enough to sense each other’s tension. Far enough to pretend the ache between you was just heat stroke. You never spoke. But you felt her watching. Felt the way her steps always slowed when she passed your section. Felt her pulse through the dirt like a phantom limb you couldn’t cut off.

Then came the bombing.

Third watch. Just before dawn.

You were inside when the blast hit, merciless. Dust and metal rained from the sky. The world turned sideways. Alarms blared. Somewhere, someone screamed.

You staggered out of the wreckage with blood in your ears and fire dancing in the corners of your vision. Your shoulder was burnt. Your left arm wouldn’t lift. But you weren’t dead.

And neither was she.

Because even before the med team could regroup, before the roll call started, you felt it, her presence. Not near, but tuned in. You felt her checking in on you without ever coming close. Like a frequency only the two of you could still hear through all the static.

She didn’t come to you.

And you didn’t go to her.

But that night, in the silence between the aftershocks, someone left a bottle of iodine and fresh bandages on your bunk. You didn’t need a note to know who.

Neither of you ever said it.

But both of you knew.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You don’t know how long you sit there, forehead to forehead, trying to slow your breathing... trying not to panic. The smoke is thicker now. You can’t tell if it’s getting darker from the fire or if you’re just starting to black out.

“Teddy,” you whisper again. Her hand is limp in yours now, fingers sticky with blood. “Hey. Hey, no- no, no. Stay with me.”

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She tries to speak but only manages a hoarse sound.

“Okay, okay,” you murmur, your free hand trembling as you pull your jacket off, folding it, pressing it harder to the deep gash in her leg. The bleeding’s slowed, but not stopped. You know what that means.

You’ve seen it too many times before. This is field medic math. And she’s running out of time.

You press your hand to her cheek. Her skin is pale and clammy, her breath shaky.

“I’ve got you,” you say, voice thick with tears. “But we have to move.”

Teddy groans faintly. Her head tilts toward you, barely conscious. “Can’t… leg’s gone numb.”

“Then I’ll drag us both,” you whisper fiercely.

You wedge your body under hers, one arm across her back, the other gripping whatever’s solid. Every movement sends shockwaves through your cracked ribs, but you grit your teeth and keep going. You think about that cot in Kuwait, where she tucked her dog tag into your palm like it meant something sacred. You think about all the nights you couldn’t sleep, picturing this exact kind of moment, losing her, again, without ever saying what you meant.

You won’t let that happen.

You didn't spend months patching her up, keeping her alive, to let it all go like this.

Piece by piece, you drag yourselves down the corridor, a graveyard of sparking wires, shattered tile, and collapsed beams. You grunt with every inch forward, gasping through the pain in your chest. Teddy is half-limp in your arms, but awake. Barely.

“You’re insane,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering. “You’re bleeding out. And still… carrying me.”

“I’m stubborn,” you rasp. “And you’re heavy.”

That gets a tiny, broken laugh out of her. It’s weak, but it’s real.

You make it to a clearer stretch of hallway. The emergency lights are flickering above, casting everything in red and shadow. You lower her gently against the wall, cradling her head in your lap. Her blood seeps into your clothes.

“I’m right here,” you whisper, brushing the dirt from her face. “You’re not alone.”

Her eyes search yours. There’s pain in them, but something else too. Something soft. “You always come for me.”

“Every time.”

You can hear sirens now. Faint. Far away. Maybe help is close. Maybe not.

But she’s still breathing. Still holding your hand. And for now, that’s enough.

She squeezes your fingers, barely there. “You’re the safest place I’ve ever known.”

And it’s like the wind’s been knocked from your lungs.

You lean down, press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re mine too.”

You don’t know if help will come in time.

But you’ve got her. And she’s got you.

Even here. Even now. In the wreckage, together.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The lull came like they always did, sudden, uneasy, too quiet. No gunfire, no incoming wounded. Just wind kicking up the dust between tents and the hum of overworked generators thrumming like a heartbeat gone still.

You found her sitting on a crate behind the surgical unit, stripped down to her undershirt, her new dog tags clinking softly as she wiped sweat from the back of her neck with a shaking hand. Her fingers were stained red at the edges. You didn’t want to know whose blood it was.

But still, she looked up when you approached. And for a second, her eyes softened like they used to. Like she’d missed you.

You sat beside her without asking.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched long and tight, until you couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I saw your name on the evac list,” you said, keeping your voice low, casual. It wasn’t casual. “They really sending you home?”

She didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.

“Couple days. Paperwork’s through. Just waiting for the transport.”

You let the words settle between you. Like dust. Like ash.

“I didn’t know you were going,” you said. "Again."

Teddy’s jaw flexed. “That’s kind of the point.”

You flinched. She sighed, like she hated herself for the words even as she said them.

“I just...” you started, heart hammering. “I thought maybe we could talk. Before you go.”

A beat.

“Talk about what?”

She knew. You knew she knew. But she was going to make you say it anyway.

You reached into your breast pocket and pulled out her old set of dog tags, the one she gave you months ago, back when you were still pretending you’d both survive this and come out clean.

“I never took it off,” you said, laying it gently between you on the crate. “Even when I was pissed. Even when I thought I’d never see you again.”

Teddy’s eyes stayed locked on the tag. Her hands curled in her lap, knuckles white.

“I wanted to ask you why you pulled away,” you said. “Back then. Before you got transferred.”

Nothing.

“And I wanted to tell you-” Your voice cracked. You swallowed it. “I just wanted to say that... it wasn’t one-sided. Whatever it was. I felt it too.”

You looked at her, searching for something. A flicker. A breath. Anything.

But she was a fortress.

Her mouth trembled just once before she set it in a hard line. She stood.

“I have to go pack,” she said, already turning away.

“That’s it?” you asked, standing too. “You’re just walking away?”

She paused. Just long enough to kill you a little.

“I’m trying to protect what’s left of us,” she said softly, over her shoulder. “And if I stay... I won’t be able to.”

“Teddy-”

“I can’t be the reason you don’t make it home.”

And then she walked away.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t say goodbye.

Left you in the dust with her dog tag still sitting on the crate, catching the sunlight.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The sirens are louder now.

Closer.

But you barely hear them over the rush of your own pulse, the quiet, uneven rasp of Teddy’s breathing, and the crackle of flames somewhere behind the walls. Your hand is still pressed to her leg wound, your fingers locked with hers as she lies in your lap.

She blinks slowly, struggling to stay present. Her face is pale, streaked with soot, blood drying at her temple. But her gaze, that stubborn, steel-edged gaze you’ve known since the desert, is on you.

“You should’ve left me,” she murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not a chance.”

"I did. I left you."

"You were trying to do the right thing. You were protecting me in your own stubborn way. I'm doing the same now."

"No, you always looked after me, always stayed," she mumbled, "I should have done the same."

"You're here now. Don't leave me now."

She winces as another tremor rumbles overhead. “If the ceiling comes down again-”

“Don’t,” you say, too quickly. Too harsh. Then softer, because she deserves soft, even now: “Don’t talk like that.”

You meet her eyes, no shadows between you now, no uniforms, no operating rooms, no titles. Just the two of you. Bruised. Bleeding. Still choosing each other.

“I waited for you,” you say, voice thick. “After the war. I didn’t say it then, but I wanted a life with you.”

Teddy blinks, startled. Her lips part, but no words come.

“I didn’t stop,” you whisper. “I kept hoping maybe someday we’d run into each other in a hallway again, and- God, Teddy, I would’ve taken it all. The guilt, the scars, the silences. I would’ve loved the broken pieces too.”

Her eyes well with tears but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shut down. Not this time.

“I was afraid you’d see them,” she whispers. “The broken parts. What I let death do to me. What I let it do to us.”

“I saw them,” you say, brushing a trembling hand along her jaw. “I always saw them. And I never looked away.”

She leans into your touch. Her body is shaking, but her voice is clear.

“If I die this time…” She trails off, struggling for breath. “If I die- at least I die loving you.”

You can’t stop the tear that falls down your cheek.

“You’re not dying,” you choke out. “Not today. Never again.”

And just in case, just in case the fire reaches you before the medics do, just in case the ceiling falls again, just in case the world has one more cruel twist, you say it.

“I should’ve told you a hundred times already. I’m in love with you.”

Teddy gives a ragged, almost laugh. “You’re an idiot,” she gasps. “You’re bleeding and still flirting.”

“I wanted you to know. In case we-”

She stops you with her mouth. It’s not perfect, it’s desperate, a little shaky, full of soot and pain and every moment you both lost.

But it’s hers. And it’s yours.

When she pulls back, forehead resting against yours, she whispers, “Not dying today. Not without more of that.”

And when the doors finally crash open and hands reach in to pull you out, you hold on tighter. To her. To the promise.

To the truth that finally has a voice.

The world comes back in pieces.

First it’s the harsh glare of floodlights breaking through smoke. Then the static-laced shouts of first responders. The groan of metal being lifted. A sudden rush of cold air as the trapped hallway finally breathes.

But you don’t move. Not until you’re sure they see her.

“She’s bleeding, here!” you shout, voice hoarse, half a sob. “She’s going into shock... please-”

A firefighter kneels beside you. Another is radioing for a stretcher. Gloves brush yours, trying to take over, but you don’t let go of Teddy’s hand until her fingers twitch, barely there, but still hers.

“She needs fluids,” you manage, blinking away the sting in your eyes. “She lost too much-”

“Got it,” someone says. “We’ve got her.”

Still, you don’t move until they lift her onto the gurney. And even then, your hand is wrapped around the rail until a medic pulls you back, gently.

“Hey, hey. You’re bleeding too. You need to sit.”

You glance down and finally feel it... the sharp throb of your ribs, the warm slick of blood on your side. The adrenaline was masking it all, but now your body is screaming. Knees buckle. Arms catch you.

You don’t remember being lifted. But you remember asking- no, begging- as the ambulance doors slam shut.

“Is she with me? Is she in the same rig?”

“She’s right here,” the medic reassures you. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You twist enough to see Teddy through blurry vision, her oxygen mask in place, an IV snaking from her arm, heart monitor beeping steadily. Her eyes flutter open as the sirens start.

And then, her fingers shift.

Toward you.

You reach. So does she.

Somehow, your hands find each other again, shaking but solid. And in the chaos of sirens and speed and shouted vitals, you hold on.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You wake up hours later in a hospital bed, your side aching, bandages tight across your ribs. There’s a nurse at your bedside. You ask the only thing that matters.

“Teddy?”

“She’s here,” the nurse says with a soft smile. “Still sleeping. Surgery went well. You’ll both be okay.”

Relief hits like a wave.

You blink against tears and nod. “Can I-?”

“I’ll give you a minute,” she says, already wheeling your IV closer so you can shift, sit, breathe.

When the nurse leaves, you don’t try to stand. Just turn your head.

And there she is.

A thin curtain separates your beds, but it’s been drawn back. Teddy’s lying on her side, face pale but peaceful, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. The monitor beside her beeps in time with yours. A mirror rhythm.

Your hands find each other again. Across the gap between beds, your fingers interlace like muscle memory.

Teddy stirs, lashes fluttering. Her eyes meet yours.

“You stayed,” she whispers, barely audible.

You nod. “Always.”

No one says the word love again. Not yet.

It’s in the silence between you. In the soft, stupid smile she gives you before falling asleep again. In the way your thumb rubs slow circles against her palm.

In the peace of knowing: you’re both here.

Still breathing. Still choosing.

Still holding on.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The first morning you don’t wake up to a heart monitor feels unreal.

Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. The air smells like coffee and clean laundry. Your ribs ache, her leg’s still stiff, and there’s a bright pink scar over your left hip, but you’re home. You’re in Teddy’s apartment. There’s a dog barking faintly down the block. The world didn’t stop spinning after all.

Teddy’s in the kitchen, moving slow but determined, crutch under one arm as she nudges the coffee maker. Her hair’s still messy, and she’s wearing one of your old t-shirts, desert faded and a little too big. You wonder if she knows you’re awake, or if she’s just letting you rest. You wonder how many mornings she did that in the field -watching you sleep, listening to your breathing, pretending the world was softer than it really was.

You sit up slowly, careful not to tug your stitches, and she glances over her shoulder.

“You’re up,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. But her voice warms on the second word, and you catch the relief in her smile.

“I smelled coffee,” you rasp. “And the apocalypse didn’t follow?”

She rolls her eyes affectionately and limps toward you, crutch clicking softly against the floor. “You’re going to ruin this moment, aren’t you?”

“Little bit.”

She hands you a mug, her fingers brushing yours, and then lowers herself gently beside you on the couch, pulling a soft fleece blanket over both your legs. You clink mugs in a silent toast.

There’s a long, peaceful quiet. No sirens. No screaming. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the birds outside the window.

Then she says, almost shyly, “You still have it?”

You glance at her, brow furrowed. “Have what?”

She reaches toward your collarbone and gently pulls at the thin chain there. The dog tag slips out from under your shirt, warm from your skin. Her name is etched into the metal. Your own dog tags hanging next to them. Paired together, the same one she left in your palm all those years ago, when you were too asleep - or too scared - to follow her.

“You still have my dog tag.”

You smile and wrap your fingers around it. “Never took it off.”

Teddy stares at you, eyes soft, voice low. “Even after everything?”

You reach over, take her hand, and press her palm flat over your heart.

“Especially after everything.”

Her forehead tips against yours. There’s no rush to kiss. No sudden swell of music. Just the quiet, trembling gravity of finally being allowed to stay.

“No more running,” she whispers.

“No more waiting,” you reply.

And just like that, the war is over.

Not the kind with explosions or triage or blood on the floor but the kind between hearts that were always meant to find their way back. The kind that ends not with a bang, but with a second cup of coffee and a promise not to disappear again.

She leans into your side. You press a kiss to her hair.

Home was never a place.

It was her.

And this time, you both stayed.

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twentyonetornmyheart · 2 months ago

Text

After Hours

Yelena x Plus Size Fem Reader!

Warning: vampire Yelena, restraints, power imbalance, restraints stalking, abduction, restraint, toxic ex, horror themes, head injury, possessive behavior, psychological manipulation

A.N: Hello! i kinda post kinda don’t. i just do it whenever i have an idea in mind and i feel like writing. This is part 1 and if people want a part 2 or more chapters it’s definitely in the works! reader will be a plus size feminine woman in mind (not enough fanfics use the descriptions or experiences that people with bigger bodies have). i know in this chapter, much of readers body type isn’t mentioned, but in future chapters it will be if the story continues ! lmk what you think!!

No one truly understands the kind of exhaustion that comes with being a teacher—especially a first-grade teacher. The time, the effort, the money, the constant pressure to be everything to everyone—it wears you down until you’re nothing but nerves and caffeine. It’s Sunday evening, and as you finish up the last of your lesson plans, a single question loops through your head like a curse:

Why am I still here?

By the time you organize the homework, print out the week’s worksheets, and tidy up the chaos that is your classroom, it’s 9:15 p.m. The school is a tomb by now—dead silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of aging pipes. There’s something about schools at night that doesn’t sit right. Too still. Too quiet. Like the building itself is holding its breath.

You’ve always hated the way the emergency lights flicker in the hallway, casting long, twitchy shadows that shift just when you’re not looking. It makes the walls feel…alive. Watching.

You shake off the chill crawling across your skin, grab your overstuffed bag, and kill the lights. As your fingers close around the handle of the back exit door—

CLANG.

The sound is sharp. Violent. Metallic.

Your heart punches against your ribs.

What the fuck…?

“Hello?” Your voice is thin, cracked. It barely reaches past the desks.

No answer.

You know—you know—you’re alone. Yours was the only car in the lot. You never heard the front door open. Never heard footsteps. And yet, something just hit the floor like it was thrown.

You fumble for your phone, flashlight on, sweeping it across the darkened room.

Then you see it.

Your tumbler. The heavy, stainless steel one that never moves from your desk—now slowly rolling in lazy circles across the floor.

You freeze.

That desk is across the room. You’ve been in the back this whole time. You didn’t knock it over. You didn’t go near it.

The silence deepens. Presses in around you like a vacuum.

Your brain races.

Maybe it slipped. Maybe the AC kicked on. Maybe…

Your gaze flicks to the vent. The air is off.

You swallow hard, skin prickling as cold dread seeps into your bones. Your body won’t move. Won’t listen. Every instinct screams that something’s wrong. That you’re not alone.

You’re being paranoid. Snap out of it.

You finally kneel, setting your bag down, muscles tense and twitching.

And then—

Darkness.

Not just the lights.

Everything goes black.

⸻

You wake to the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in the back of your skull, and every part of your body screams in protest as you try to move.

You can’t.

You try to lift your arms. Nothing. Try to scream. Just a whimper.

Your breath catches. Panic takes over. You’re tied down.

Your vision blurs, eyes struggling to adjust to the low light. It smells like dust and iron and something faintly rotten—like the inside of an old crawlspace that hasn’t seen sunlight in years.

A shadow moves in front of you.

Your stomach flips.

There’s someone here.

A woman steps into view—strong, poised. Her presence coils around you like a vice. Blonde hair catches in the flickering light. Green eyes glint with something unnatural—amusement, maybe. Or hunger.

It takes you a second. Then your heart really stops.

You know that face. That smile. That voice.

“Hello, baby,” she purrs, tilting her head. “Long time no see.”

Yelena.

Your ex.

You haven’t seen her in two months—not since the messy, breathless, heartbreaking end.

And now she’s standing over you in the dark, eyes glinting like a predator.

She didn’t come for closure.

She came for you.

#yelena belova #florence pugh #yelena belova x reader #florence pugh x reader #plus size reader #yelena belova x plus size fem reader #fem!plus size reader #wlw fanfic #vampire fanfiction

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bigbarabelly · 6 months ago

Note

thoughts on abo pregnant homelander?

I’ve been trying to draw him for days and he looks like ass so fjdksla u get THOUGHTS instead

Cut for scrolling lmao

I think a lot depends on how much Homelander’s pushed down with being Vought’s golden project. If the man’s been on suppressants and faking being an alpha for his entire life, then he Does Not Know how to do or embrace his omegan instincts, mannerisms, or needs. Jfksadl like if we go into this. Can the man even purr? Has he ever tried or just gave up from the possibility of it outing him? And now it’s just an embarrassing thing he tries once in a while alone, hates how it sounds from disuse, and shoves it in the back of his mind.

There’s no way they would have let him make any kind of a nest in the labs growing up when he presented. And with how sensitive his temperament is in destroying his penthouse 24/7, like he probably directs his interior design team or whatever, but it’s not His home really in the way he’d decorate and build his den nest human instinct cave man ass animal at heart Home. He’s always a mess obviously JFDKLS but finally given the space and his own alpha he actually gives a shit about, he’d be very protective over that scent bomb nest he’s finally able to start piecing together following his instincts.

Still pissy and snippy cause its fucking home lander but jumped up with baby brain hormones making him feel like he’s doing loops with his usual leave me alone angry shit, and the clingy soft need building up to fix his home to prep for his partner and kid. The regret from a fit and having laser vaporized one of his favorite tshirts he stole for his nest cause it’s just not tucking right and the sensory of a wrinkle made him snap. The hesitation the next time though from a split second of clarity ringing through his brain asking himself if going to snap like that when the kid comes? Big character growth time for this dipshit LMAO

He’s already a cryer behind the scenes but definitely is pushed with this i think. He’s had a variety of awful shit done to him growing up, and probably gets a good punch or slam now and then now. But not a consistent year of hell from the inside out. Not being sick and having his own body betray him so harshly. His body won out on the brain fight for breeding like an animal and it’s exhausting. Lot of evenings hissing from his hips hurting as they widen over the months. Biting his nails and punching concrete so he doesn’t hurt himself instead with how weird the changes to his body feel and the fact he can’t just stop the baby kicking him whenever he wants. He’s not been tested like this before

He’s been so performative in his alpha shit and frankly a busy celebrity. He’s not got time or ever been like around family shit to know anything about what to expect or how much something like the first movements rock him to the core over how soft it makes him feel. Like yea show him is a narcissist and obviously a shitbag but there’s still tangible chunks of someone that could and tries to and can care. Like how he treats ryan for the most part and wants what’s best for him, despite how warped it is u know.

But that makes it so much more real and not just an inconvenience or annoying whatever consequence to giving into a heat or finding The One mate. It moves. It’s real. It’s his. But it’s not him and he needs to make sure they make it to Just Be. And that hits him like a truck of realizing shit this is gonna b harder than i thought if i dont’ want to fuck them up hiding them away. He sucks ass but i don’t think he could handle being separated from his child giving them up for anonymous adoption or if he was even able to terminate it. It’s the ultimate control over his body to carry it to term i think? Like he chose to do it, no one else. Be it for interest in boredom, or ignorance and fear ignoring it until it’s too late to even attempt to get rid of it without severely hurting himself. Like idk if surgery can even be performed on him for a C-section so his best bet is to hope for and have a smooth natural birth. With the compound V idk how well birth control or suppressants and whatnot even work on him. So even if he tried to take an early term abortion pill lmao it’d probably fail. Or he’d only bleed, think it passed, and nope.

Cute shit though that man would be living in his alphas clothes. Probably sick of his suit but also he’s neurotically attached to that thing for comfort. So to have a switch to another big shirt that encompasses him like his armor, but surrounding him in his partners smell and comforting that omega ache he ignored for like 30 years has him like shaking in how he slowly relaxes into it. Everyone always stinks not being his type or covered in chemical soaked scent blockers and perfumes. Like an axe locker room but that’s his life always being in crowds and stuffy packed parties. Something nice and muting every other scent with the smell of home and safe and love just UGH he’d be CUTE OK just pulling up their hoodie around his face and always in their neck scenting them when they come home

#breplies #anon #homelander #mpreg #abo

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biblicallyaccuratecrow · 10 months ago

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ouroboros rambles chapter 2

you guys seemed to like the chapter 1 rambles, so here is chapter 2!

[spoilers for isat and twohats below the cut]

i would like to start by saying that we all need more mirabelle POV fics in our lives. she deserves only the best.

I always really liked how Mira didn't just. get over act 5? like, the things that siffrin said were hurtful! yes! and she loves him! even after that! but it doesn't erase the pain and the conflicting feelings regarding it, especially because of the no-spoilers rule... which we will get more into i proMISE! in any case I was focused a lot on the fact that Mira post canon is dealing with a Lot, what with everyone still believing that she was chosen by the Change God and yknow. saving Vaugarde, and Siffrin's overall condition doesn't help! She wants him to be okay and safe, and she has already shown that she feels immense guilt over not being able to help siffrin during the loops, so I kinda leaned hard into that.

The entire party is about to be So Tired Of People.... especially The Introverts (Odile, Mira, and Siffrin)...

The fucking cart thing came to me out of fucking nowhere. I have no idea where or why that bit came around.

Siffrin sleeping habits analysis. siffrin sleeps all curled up like a cat most of the time? theyre small scrappy, but not really the most physically strong (before the loops), and i imagine more than a few years of traveling alone would train him to be ready to protect themselves however they can, even in their sleep. I think that this eases up a bit as they get comfortable with the party, which leads to them being able to sleep "normally". but of course, that is how they wake up in the loops. negative association and trauma from waking up back in the meadow..... i don't imagine they'll be going back to that any time soon.

I do have a Full Catalog of Siffrin's injuries (because im actually insane) but that will be talked about in my chapter 3 rambles. for now though, all im gonna say is that Siffrin definitely kept the stars hidden. In my headcanon, healing craft only works when you can actually pinpoint a wound, internal or external. I'm more inclined to believe that siffrin healed them up the best they could on their own after to hide them.

Ohhhh odile. my beloved. i have so many feelings about her and how she processes siffrin's issues postcanon. feelings i will not get into until next chapter. sorry lmaoooooo. All you gotta know for now is that once she starts seeing things, she can't stop. the signs appear everywhere, and she very quickly puts the pieces together from that point. All it takes is one domino to start the cascade, and Odile is the kind of person that WILL get to the bottom of it all, no matter what it takes.

Mira's guilt. Oh man. There are some ways in which her and Siffrin are very alike, and this is one of them. She's justified in being mad, yes, but that doesn't erase the fact that she doesn't want to BE mad. She hates it. because she knows now that siffrin was suffering. She defeated the king, saved vaugarde, but the cost was her friend's health and happiness. siffrin said that they were happiest they'd ever been with the party... and yes, siffrin loves them all deeply, but she never could have wanted that love to come at such a great price.

Mira has gotta be TIRED. girl healed siffrin a grand total of (checks my page of notes from act 5) six times. with very little cooldown. and that was AFTER deflecting the ONE SHOT KILL attack from the king (which, even with the carrot method shield, does at least 1/4 damage) and unfreezing siffrin....ough. let her rest!

i love torturing isa using his crush. its so funny. bro is a disaster. brain completely short circuits at the thought of siffrin in his clothes i can IMAGINE IT SO CLEARLY.... odile is gon abe homophobic soon /silly

Siffrin's wish... this scene was really important to me. Just for clarification (and this will become a LOT more obvious later), I don't really regard this scene as Siffrin getting over what happened? Because he definitely isn't. But they have already literally let go of their wish, and I wanted to explore a more… intentional version of that? its long-lasting effects are still there, mentally and physically. it doesn't just go away. But it has served its purpose and this is my way of showing the transition point from the loops and their future with their family.

Also!!! the idea of mourning something that no longer serves its former purpose, a life you cannot get back. Siffrin can never go back to who they were before their wish. They have been fundamentally changed as a person. And while the wish did bring good things, the flipside is that it also dismantled their entire worldview and life in its entirety. They died from this wish, suffered because of it, but the meaning behind it remains, and i think that this scene kind of shows the idea that siffrin still feels compassion for what it originally meant to them. its a bittersweet reality.

#in stars and time #isat #in stars and time spoilers #isat fic #in stars and time fanfic #isat spoilers #ramblings #fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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myx-on-earth · 1 year ago

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Content Warning: Landfall Game's April Fools Triumph

For the Content!

It would seem that an April Fools joke of a game has resulted in overnight indie success. Landfall Games, a beloved indie game studio, has a yearly April Fools tradition they call “Landfall Day”, where their devs put together essentially a parody of whatever game is popular at the time. They’ve parodied everything from DayZ to battle royales (Twice, with Totally Accurate Battlegrounds and Knightfall), and this year it would seem it’s Lethal Company’s turn.

Lethal Company is a game known for silly co-op shenanigans that seem to instantly translate into YouTube content- and Content Warning takes that idea and turns it up to 11, making being an influencer a part of the game mechanics. You and a group of friends take a diving bell to “The Old World”, a spooky map filled with monsters and traps entirely for the sake of internet entertainment value. With a single camera and 90 seconds of film, your group has to make the spookiest, funniest video possible- because your only source of income is Spooktube, and that revenue doesn’t come easily.

It's such a brilliant parody of both the horror genre Lethal Company tapped into and the loop of content creation in the internet age that it, somehow, wraps around to being an excellent game in of itself, though Landfall is no stranger to finding gold through satire. Previously, their first battle royale parody (Totally Accurate Battlegrounds, a riff on PUBG) found some success, enough that Landfall turned it into a full venture. It’s not as popular nowadays, but it IS legitimately good- and Content Warning seems to be turning out the same way with its initial popularity and engaging premise.

Typical Content Warning video result, featuring myself, @thatpocketninja, @squiddskipp, and a third friend who requested to remain anonymous

In the space of video game development, April Fools seems to be not so much a “joke” day, but a day that allows ideas to be thrown around that might not otherwise have been considered, which can lead to majorly creative leaps of faith. With examples like the Yakuza series’ pivot to turn-based combat, Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon’s continued success in the midst of a floundering Ubisoft, and even Lilith Walther’s upcoming definitely-not-Bloodborne Kart (now known as Nightmare Kart), the idea of “joke turned legitimate gamedev venture” isn’t exactly new.

I actually had the pleasure of exchanging emails with Hanna Fogelberg (@thebirdmountain on Twitter), Landfall's Head of Community, who provided some insight into Content Warning’s development and the overwhelming response in the interview below.

1. What's it like to go to bed seeing some success, then waking up to find your joke game is a viral hit? Did you expect this at all, given the surprising amount of polish it has?

"We couldn't sleep to tell you the truth! Even if the team said good night at about 2am we kept texting the player numbers to each other throughout the night, we were very wired! We always knew there was the potential of the game going really well, there's something about the design and shareability of the videos you make that we knew could hit it big but it's still surprising it went THIS well."

2. How long did it take to develop Content Warning?

"Content Warning was made in about six weeks of active game development, but the idea came to us back in December!"

3. What were your main inspirations for the game? (Beyond Lethal Company, of course)

“Lethal Company and similar games were an obvious reference for the gameplay loop, we love that game! That said, what was most interesting to us was the core of the game - the filming and video creation. We were inspired by YouTubers and influencer culture, there's something interesting in people risking life and limb for content that we wanted to play off of.

Other than that, the vibes of The Older World were inspired by Junji Ito and a specific H.R Giger painting while The Over World references the Swedish children's book Pettson och Findus.”

4. How experienced was the dev team?

“We're pretty experienced, the Landfall team has been making games for over 10 years with previous releases being Totally Accurate Battle Simulator, Stick Fight: The Game, Clustertruck and Rounds to mention a few.”

5. How does this experience compare to the last semi-viral success Landfall had with a Landfall Day game? (TABG)

“This game outdid TABG in player numbers several times over! So it's hard to compare, this is by far our most viral hit to date.” 6. Any plans for the future of the game? Or just basic bug fixes and some more content?

“We will see! Currently, we're focusing on fixing bigger bugs and other issues but we already have some new content planned. We're kind of playing it by ear at this point, it all depends on how things go in the coming weeks.”

Some may attribute Content Warning’s success to multiple factors- the 24 hour free period, how it riffs on Lethal Company and the tropes it already employs, or even that it was “designed to go viral”- but you can’t deny that, even as an iterative piece, it still manages to find its own identity and already seems to have captured the content creation hearts of everyone who gives it a chance. Games like this, that aren’t reliant on micro transactions and are buoyed by the PEOPLE you play with, rather than the money that one must spend on it, are the hope- and, hopefully, the future- of the video games industry. You can find Content Warning (No longer free, but still very cheap!) at the link below: https://store.steampowered.com/app/2881650/Content_Warning/

#indie games #gaming #journalism #landfall #content warning game #honestly a legitimately fantastic game #i will be absolutely playing more #better than lethal company??!?!!?!?! jk 2 legends can exist

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hellishchrissy · 10 months ago

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hello random gareth/el thought: el experimenting with hairstyles and trying them all out on gareth. her favorite look is definitely the pigtails, she just thinks he looks so sweet 💕

that is all

It's a pretty nice Saturday afternoon, one of those first days of spring that actually feel warm on your skin, and the sunshine is no longer accompanied by a cold breeze. Summer of 1989 is fast approaching, its first rays of light filtering in through the windows of Gareth's mother's garage.

He's back from college for spring break, and though there has been many promises made to his mother about the garage getting cleaned, it's as much of a disaster as before – if not worse. Gareth has assured her, over and over, that this time he’d get to it. Instead, the place is a chaotic mess of empty beer bottles, tangled cables and music gear.

And it’s not like Gareth has a chance to focus on playing his drums for an entire week straight when he’s away at college – he’d barely scraped through his midterms, and a dorm room isn’t exactly a place where you haul a drum set with you.

So here he is now, sitting on his worn-down stool, headphones over his ears while trying to nail down the drums of a Metallica song that’s been looping on his Walkman for the last twenty minutes. His dark brows are furrowed in concentration, head bobbing to the beat, a drop of sweat on his forehead as his hands fly over the drums. But every now and then he misses a beat, and quiet curses fall off his lips. He rewinds the tape.

As if the song itself isn’t challenging enough, there’s another distraction making him miss a beat here and there: El’s standing behind him, her slender fingers in his hair as he plays. Her hands are separating his curls with methodical precision, tugging and grazing at his neck in a way that makes it hard to even hear the song blaring in his ears. She’d done this before – probably hundreds of times – but it’s always a distraction. Today, more so than usual. Her cool fingers send jolts down his spine, making it damn near impossible to keep time.

“El,” Gareth murmurs, tearing the headphones off his ears in a hasty movement. He lens back his head so that he can look up at her standing behind his stool. “You’re distracting me.”

El grins when their eyes meet, but her fingers don’t pause their braiding. “But it looks so good, Gare. You could wear your hair like this at the gig next week.”

Gareth snorts, shaking his head against her hands. A grin tugs at his lips. “Babe, I don’t need to look good for a metal crowd. I just need to be able to play the drums.”

Which sure as fuck is impossible right now, with the way her touch is electrifying his veins.

“You can do both,” El teases, fingers still deftly working over the last section of curls.

Gareth lets out little laugh, low and rough. “You’re seriously overestimating my multitasking abilities here.”

El doesn’t respond, but merely gives him the soft, knowing smile she’s perfected during the years, the one that makes Gareth’s chest warm with affection despite the fact that he’s been lucky enough to witness that damn smile for over two years now. For a moment he just sits there, the headphones hanging loosely around his neck, listening on to El’s quiet humming as her fingers twist his curls—

The drumsticks clatter onto the floor.

And before he can even think twice, Gareth shifts on the stool, twisting around enough to snake an arm around the unsuspecting girl’s waist. He pulls her sideways onto his lap, his other arm wrapping around her to steady her some more. A surprised yelp falls from El’s lips as she falls against him, landing with a quiet little thud. Gareth’s left hand settles instinctively on her thigh, holding her steady as she looks up at him with a laugh that lights up her brown eyes.

“Gare, no, you’re all sweaty—“

“And you’re evil,” Gareth murmurs, leaning downwards. El’s wearing an old band t-shirt of his, worn and stretched out from washing, and the sight of it makes his heart skip a little beat.

El grins up a him, her arm making its way around his neck to pull Gareth downwards. “Am I distracting you now?”

A grin mirroring El’s tugs at Gareth’s lips, his heart thumping against his ribs. “You have no idea,” he mutters.

Gareth’s hand moves up and down her thigh in a way that makes El shiver, his ring-clad fingers brushing against the denim of her shorts. It’s something he’s done hundreds of times before, the gesture familiar, comforting and so, so distracting. El’s breath hitches the way it often does when Gareth’s touch is a little too casual; she swats his hand away with a laugh, her gesture playful.

“You’re trying to get the song right, remember?” She says, her voice soft but firm. Her brown eyes narrow.

Gareth groans, over-dramatic. His forehead drops against her shoulder, the softened fabric of her t-shirt brushing against his cheek. “Yeah well, maybe I care about you more than I care about Metallica.”

El grins, shaking her head. She pushes against his chest with her hand. “Don’t even try. You’re obsessed with Metallica.”

“Well, yes, but I’m obsessed with you more,” he says, half-serious, half-teasing, his light eyes twinkling.

His words make El laugh, her body vibrating in Gareth’s arms. Her hands grab the collar of his flannel, pulling him downwards and onto her lips.

Gareth is grinning against her mouth.

El lingers for a bit before pulling back. “Get back to work,” she commands, her fingers giving his brown curls – now already falling out of the untied braids – a playful tug before she hops off his lap.

Gareth’s eyes follow her, and he wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He bends down to pick up the sticks from the floor. “You’re killing me, Hopper.”

“Maybe you’re just getting rusty.”

Gareth laughs, tilting his head back. “Rusty, huh? Sure, babe. That’s what this is.”

El throws her an amused glance over her shoulder. Gareth pulls the headphones over his ears again, rewinding the familiar song on the Walkman. Metallica’s trashing riffs fill his ears, far too loud for his own good. And though he tears his gaze away from El and forces himself to focus on the drums, he can still feel her touch lingering on his skin. Distracting him, her laugh still echoing in his ears, drowning out the song blaring from the headphones.

God help him, he’s gonna fuck up the song again.

#they are sweet and i love them #greatmage #gareth emerson #gareth st #gareth stranger things #eleven hopper #el hopper #jane hopper #el x gareth #gareth x el #gareth x eleven #stranger things #hellfire club #corroded coffin #eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #gareth emerson fanfic #gareth emerson fanfiction

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ttaibhse · 8 months ago

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i need to start up running again i haven't been in ages and i feel shitty about it but i still just don't really want to. especially now it's getting colder lol i like running in cool weather but when it's actually cold not as much. i was getting so bored of it idrk why i guess because i was running out of new routes to do... i hate running along the road and the thought of adding more distance which basically would mean adding more time on the road or just mindless loops of the parks wasn't really motivating lol. and i felt like i stopped making progress. and then i got sick and the pain in my back/hips came back for a while. and to be honest i was/am just disappointed that i wasn't losing any weight at least not perceptibly and obviously i was lying when i said the goal of it wasn't to lose weight lol. like not the only goal i did/do also want to just be a fitter and more active person and not let my bones crumble into dust by middle age whatever but ultimately i want to lose weight and it just wasn't happening. even though i wasn't intentionally eating much more to make up for the extra activity but i probably was doing it without meaning to. like admittedly there were definitely times i would be like oh i can have a bit more i did a big run today. not all the time but enough i guess. i feel like shit i hate being this size & shape i miss being skinny and the more time passes with me not being skinny it gets harder to remember the negatives that came with it. like i look back now and i know i was always cold and exhausted and obsessed with food and my whole life revolved around it like i know all that but i looked so much better -_- my clothes looked nicer. if someone took a photo of me i only had to worry about hating my face not my body as well. or not as much at least lol i always hated it i guess. but omfg my face even looks worse now because its just doughy. i cant stand it. i cant believe how fucked up i look lol

i hate writing posts like this i sound so cookie cutter stereotypical ED girl. it's so so embarrassing i can't stop feeling like this at nearly 28. im 28 in like 10 days and the first time i remember consciously deciding to stop eating to lose weight i was 10 or 11. my mum still seems to have genuinely blocked out the memories of it like any of it even though we talked about it at several different points in time when i was a teenager and i said to her what was going on and she was so angry with me like furious with me. and then again when i was an adult and just said outright because i knew i had put on weight over lockdown and i knew she thought i had just lost control of myself because she said so to my sister

so i said to her like look i was only really thin in uni because i was in like a 1.5k calorie deficit every single day. there were days i would stand up at the end of a lecture and almost black out lol so i said all that maybe 3 or 4 years ago was the last time i brought it up icr but still if the topic of eating disorders or similar comes up she will say things like "i hope youve never felt that way" LMFAO like full sincerity i swear to fucking god i dont understand. but anyway its not a great feeling knowing she thinks im fat because i just dont take care of myself. even though it is true i suppose. and every time i see my granny she comments on my weight. so anyway all that to say that's how i know it's true and it's not just in my head

like i can acknowledge that back in the day when i was something like 55kg and still thought i was huge that was some kind of dysmorphia involved. but not any more and it's just kind of a blow because i had finally started accepting this idea that i wasn't as big as i thought and now i am it's like i don't know like going backwards. like a nightmare come true or something it's literally all the bad thoughts i would have about myself are true now. i am that fat or even worse because i think i've been deluding myself i think i'm actually now bigger than i think i am. and i am lazy and eat badly and it still feels like my options are total lack of control or the tightest rein possible. theres no good middle ground i dont know how people find a middle ground. how do you eat normally lol. ive only ever been thin when i was barely eating + walking miles and miles every day AND on testosterone. i tried to do eating normally and now im so huge and i dont know what to do like logically i know there are people out there who have got it right so why cant i get it right

#edcw #sorry no one needs to read this but i needed to try and let it out lol #logging off logging of f logging off i prommy

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the-archangel · 2 years ago

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Never Tear Us Apart

Part of the @cp77nyexchange for @elvenbeard, hope it's just what you always wanted!

There was a time not so long ago that just waking up with a roof over his head was enough for V, hell whether he’d wake up at all wasn’t something he took for granted. If he really tried, he could have imagined finding the Eddies to rent his own place again; as long as there was a bookshelf, a bed and a laptop he would be more than happy, but anything on top of that would have seemed a pipe dream.

Relationships were definitely off the cards too, the couple of times he’d dabbled in the fetid waters of the Night City dating pool he couldn’t swim away fast enough, there may be plenty of fish in the sea, but most of them were either sharks or blobfish.

As for work, much as he hated everything Arasaka stood for it was at least a steady job with regular pay and when it was over the choices were limited, since selling his ass on a street corner didn’t particularly appeal, he fell into the merc work and turned out to be pretty good at it. But the jobs and the training took over his life and for the kind of crappy gigs he was getting the pay was scop too, all he could see in his future was the same again, day after day, though on the upside mercs didn’t tend to live to be old and grey so it wouldn’t be his future for very long.

That’s why, every morning, rain or shine, good sleep or bad, V smiles. He’s got more than he ever imagined and although ‘stuff’ doesn’t make him happy, security and love definitely do and he has both of those in abundance.

Kerry never doubted that he’d be successful and wealthy, it took years of hard work and some shady decisions sure, but he knew he’d get there in the end. What he did doubt was that he’d ever find someone to share his life with.

At first, he just didn’t see the point, he fell in love every week, every day sometimes and would give the object of his affection every ounce of his being for the time they were together, until, like a magpie attracted by shiny things, he’d find a new obsession and move on without looking back. That lifestyle took it’s toll though, he was getting a reputation and making increasingly poor choices so he took himself out of the loop, went back home and returned some time later with a new mindset, he was ready to find ‘the one’. That was over forty years ago and much as he’d found several ‘definitely not the one’s’ in that time, it was only in the last few years that he could say he’d succeeded.

Right now, ‘the one’ was back home in Night City, Kerry had never wanted to go home as badly as he does right now, but there’s one more day and night of schmoozing and interviews to get through first and, since he’s in New York for the first time in forever, some Christmas shopping to catch up on.

“Hey,”

Kerry’s voice in V’s holo is heavy with sleep but still sexy as fuck.

“Hey back atcha, how’s it goin’?” V says brightly from his nest of pillows, Nibbles purring softly at his side.

“Shiiit, I’m sorry V, y’know I always forget about the time difference, I just…I just really missed your voice.”

“It’s fine,” chuckles the fixer, “been up for a while, emails to catch up on and stuff. Was going for a run but the weather’s stupid right now,” he turns around his optics to let Kerry see the view from their window. “Storm’s not even properly here yet and it’s already like Ragnarök out there.”

The storm had been working its way up the coast for days, Pacifica was getting the worst of it right now, so it was only a matter of hours before it hit Little China, the sky was already black, the dark clouds skittering madly ahead of the incoming wind.

Kerry’s perfect brows meet in concern, “You gonna be alright up there? Maybe you should go to the villa, might be safer.”

“Sure, a house on the top of a hill is way safer than a modern apartment block, I’ll be fine working from home and just using the gym downstairs. Don’t worry.”

Kerry still looks unsure, “Fine, just…just keep me updated. Be on my way back this time tomorrow, can’t wait.”

“Mhm, me either, we can order in some food and have a cosy movie afternoon.”

“Sounds preem, love you.”

“You too Ker, speak soon.”

The holo darkens and V’s voice fades, it’s been a long couple of days but thank fuck it’ll be over soon.

New York is bright, but cold. Wrapped up in his padded jacket and scarf, the world-famous Rockerboy is completely anonymous, not that anyone around here cares who he is anyway. It’s a relief to be able to walk the streets without being mobbed or molested, though he still has a security guard following at a discrete distance.

Kerry loves buying presents, he can happily spend days picking out the exact right thing and the recipient always reacts with surprised delight, all except V. V is horrible to buy for, he asks for nothing because he wants nothing, says he’s got everything he needs; Kerry sees it as a personal challenge to find him a gift that will blow him away. He’s pretty sure he’s aced it this year, just needs to pick it up.

V wasn’t telling Kerry the absolute truth, he really wasn’t planning on leaving the penthouse, but he wasn’t there working and he wasn’t alone. He slides out from under the sheets puts his sneakers back on and picks his coffee up from the side table with Nibbles following him back down the stairs into the living area.

Sitting on the bottom step sipping at his drink, V watches the chaos unfold around him. Dark greenery is being swathed and erected around the room, whilst purple and gold accessories adorn the foliage and surfaces. He moves to one side to allow a small, busy woman in a red pantsuit to wrap the banister rail in ivy and pine, several other similarly dressed workers are putting their designer touches to the trees and bookshelves.

With only a few days to go until Christmas, the weather had forced Kerry and V to change their plans and spend the holidays at home instead of at the mountain cabin, as long as they were together neither minded too much, but it did mean that all the decorations and food that had been delivered up there were now only for the benefit of the staff. Before Kerry left, they’d decided to have a quiet day and make up for it on New Year’s Eve, but V knew that Kerry loved Christmas and really loved the over-the-top flamboyance that was positively encouraged at this time of year, so he wasn’t going to let him down. It had been tricky to find someone to do it at such short notice, but the Eurodyne name – and its Eddies – open a lot of doors.

Kerry’s day was dragging, interview after interview asking the same questions over and over. He wasn’t much of a clock watcher, barely knew what day it was sometimes never mind what time, but today the clock in the corner of his Kiroshis is counting him down to when he can finally pack his bags and head home. His initial intent was to set off in the morning, but fuck that, he can sleep on the plane, so he has his manager book a flight a couple of hours after his last commitment, his fifteenth hosting spot on SNL, and uses the time between interviews to pack his bags.

Back home, V watches Kerry’s performance on the big screen, cheesy as some of it is, he still finds himself smiling proudly throughout, a small, unsure part of him still finding it hard to believe that the Rock God on TV is his mainline. He knows that every look into the camera and every cheeky smile is his alone, safely away from the ongoing storm, and with a snoring Nibbles on his lap, there’s only one thing that could make this evening cosier.

Even as the credits are rolling a call comes through on the holo, “Heeeey V, bags are in the car I’m on the way to the airport.”

“Thought you weren’t setting off until morning?”

“I just want to be home, with you Vince. Besides, I’ve got something for ya.”

V groans inwardly, Kerry knows he’s not good with receiving gifts but he tries just the same, “That’s great Ker,” he fibs, “I’ll see you in a few hours, be safe.”

“You know I will, love ya V.”

“You too ya gonk.”

There are some things that even money can’t fix, chief amongst these is the weather. For the third time it is painstakingly being explained to Kerry that there are no direct flights to the West coast tonight, none, nada.

Kerry stops his complaining for a moment to take in what the airport security was telling him, “No, direct flights, fine,” This is why he usually has ‘people’ to do this shit for him, “what about indirect ones?”

An hour later he finally makes a flight, not to NC but to what remains of some place called Bakersfield, then there would be a two-hour drive the rest of the way, could be worse so he tries to stay upbeat explaining the sitch to V.

“How long til you land?” asks V sleepily.

“Bout four hours I think, get some sleep baby, I’ll be there before you know it.”

If V was sleepy, then Kerry was positively exhausted, the long days, the time difference, the lateness of the hour all took their toll and Kerry is asleep in moments.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Mr Eurodyne, but we’re about to land.”

Kerry is woken from a deep sleep, momentarily confused and disoriented he soon turns it back on for the air steward, “Thanks doll, congrats on the uber-comfy seats.”

The pretty steward smiles broadly– she had a poster of him on her wall at home and was quite star-struck– and advises him to fasten his seatbelt.

Making his way through the airport animatedly ‘discussing’ with his manager over the holo how to progress with the rest of the journey, Kerry doesn’t notice he is being followed and so is not at all ready when a strong hand grabs his wrist and spins him around…

“Vince!” he cries, happily burying his face in the other man’s neck and enjoying the sensation of being held in warm, safe arms. “Not gonna pretend I’m not pleased to see you, but what you doing here, it’s the middle of the fucking night, at least I think it is, it’s pretty dark anyways.”

V chuckles into Kerry’s collar, he could be such a gonk sometimes, “Couldn’t leave you to drive all that way alone. You’ve crashed your car twice this year just going to the other side of North Oak, I’d never be able to sleep knowing you were driving all this way.”

Both men lean into the hug a moment longer, then make their way hand in hand to the car, oblivious to the fuss and photos going on around them. “You were right about one thing,” V tells his mainline, “it really is the middle of the night, gonna sleep for a week when we get back.”

“Gonna sleep for a week eventually,” corrects Kerry.

The storm has abated, the usually littered streets of Night City look cleared somewhat, though looking into the darker corners reveals detritus - both human and otherwise - better left unexplored. Kerry always feels a weight settling on him when he returns, it’s comforting in some ways and has lessened of late, but it’s a constant reminder that he is fragile and mortal and he hates it. He’d snoozed away the last couple of hours, but wakes to the sun just rising above the horizon illuminating the neon and dust with a yellowish hue.

“I love this time of day,“ V says softly, somehow aware that Kerry has awoken, “the City looking fresh and new, full of possibilities.”

“As long as its full of coffee and toast that’ll do for now,”

V smiles and rests his hand on his lover’s thigh, “I’ve got a surprise for you back at home.”

Raising an eyebrow, Kerry looks deep into V’s emerald-green eyes, “I thought you said you were tired,” he smirks.

“Not that kind of surprise, at least not yet, you’ll see.”

Elevator music has not improved over the last hundred years or so, V grins and Kerry groans as a tinkly, jolly version of ‘User Friendly’ floods the small compartment, thankfully the journey isn’t a particularly long one and the doors to the penthouse slide open silently. Kerry lifts his head from where it had been resting on V’s shoulder, the twinkling lights reflected in his sapphire eyes.

“Shiiit Vince, it’s beautiful. When did you have time to do all this?” he asks stepping into the suddenly unfamiliar living space with wonder.

“Um, I managed to persuade the company that does the set design for your shows to loan us some stuff, they came over and…”

The sentence is stolen away by a fierce kiss from the Rockerboy who now looks at his lover, tender hands framing his tired face, “I don’t deserve you, but I’m never fucking letting you go.”

Another kiss and V leads Kerry through the golden and purple lights to the promised coffee and toast.

“You know I said I got you something?” Asks Kerry, espresso in one hand and half-eaten raisin toast in the other.

“Mhm,” answers V through a mouthful of cereal.

“Well, um…” Kerry is rarely tongue-tied, but finds himself anxious now the moment has come. Although always appreciative, V has never been impressed by a gift that Kerry (or anyone) had given him, though this one would be tricky to hide in a cupboard or re-gift. “Gimme a minute.”

Rummaging around in one of the bags still dumped by the elevator door, Kerry pulls out a slightly crumpled old-school cardboard folder tied with a ribbon, whilst V tries to organise his face and thoughts into something that looks and sounds grateful for whatever this turns out to be.

“You could’ve just emailed whatever this is y’know.”

“It’s Christmas, I wanted something you could hold in your hands, but you don’t need to hold it like it’s gonna explode, go on baby, open it.”

V places the folder on the counter and pulls on the ribbon with Kerry nervously looking over his shoulder, a hand resting gently on V’s hip. He watches as V first looks at the photo before placing it to one side and reading the paperwork with a furrowed brow.

“Erik?”

“Yeah, I thought he’d be company for Nibbles, we’re kinda away a lot and she gets lonely. Thought it’d be fun for her – and us - to have a kitten around. Can’t pick him up for a few weeks yet though.” Kerry bites his lower lip and looks up at the ex-merc for a reaction.

“You got me a kitten, seriously?”

“Kinda,” Kerry’s arms fall to his sides and he walks away perching on the edge of the coffee table, no longer able to look V in the eye, “Keep reading…”

There’s silence as V works his way through all the sheets in the folder, Kerry quietly slips out onto the balcony for a smoke and soon strong arms wrap around him and he leans back into the hug with relief.

“You’re completely mad, you know that right?”

“It’s been said. Just thought, y’know, if we owned the cat sanctuary then we know they’ve got everything they need and that they’re being looked after properly, and as an added bonus you can go over and pet the inmates whenever you’re feeling stressed.”

V hugs his mainline a little tighter, kissing him behind the ear. “Plus, it’ll give you something to do when you’re too old and doddery to go on stage anymore.” he whispers.

A well-placed elbow to the ribs makes V gasp and then giggle, he takes Kerry’s hand and leads him towards the living area and huge projector screen for the promised movie afternoon, though not much of the film is actually watched; both are gently snoring in each other’s arms within moments.

#kerry eurodyne #kerry eurodyne x male v #cyberpunk 2077 #kerry x male v #cyberpunk kerry #v cyberpunk #kerry is my muse #cyberpunk v #kerry x v #cp77nyex

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