Be Yourself

Titus Danforth x fem!reader

In all the years Titus had been alive, no woman had ever captured his attention like you did. Titus could not explain it, he just knew, from the second he first met you, he needed you like air. And he'd move heaven and hell if necessary to get you. Not his father, not yours, not the Lawyer, Mr Le Bail or his demons he had watching over you could ever stop him.

Chapter 6 - Cracks

Masterlist | previous chapter| next chapter

Words: 5,8k

Content: Older Man/Younger Woman (Titus is 50, Reader in her early twenties but it's only mentioned in passing), Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Torture, Possessive Behaviour, Stalking, Slightly Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Obsessive Titus Danforth, Sexually Inexperienced Titus Danforth, Virgin!Reader, Agoraphobic Reader, Size Difference, Size Kink, Blood Kink, Dacryphilia

No use of y/n!

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Part 1

[Silly little prompt]

Read Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 💚

Read Sequel: Unbound

You’ve been assigned as a biologist to an extremely remote location.

You took the job because you needed the money, and you didn’t question the oddly high salary they offered.

It didn’t take long to realize the truth: you were there to study and collect samples from alien lifeforms such as yautjas and xenomorphs.

The catch behind the generous paycheck became obvious… you could be killed at any moment while working.

SMAU Summary: When Dennis Whitaker leaves the small town of Broken Bow, he leaves behind a lot more than just his family and some farm animals. He leaves behind his childhood best friend, perhaps the only person that's ever really known him. Can he start over completely in Pittsburgh or will there always be something just in the rearview that he can't ignore?

Dennis Whitaker x f!reader

Childhood best friends to lovers central, told through a series of instagram posts, text messages, and the occasional old fashioned writing.

Chapters:

Prologue - here

Chapter 1 - here

Chapter 2 - here

Chapter 3 - here

Chapter 4 - coming soon…

taglist: @moonjellyfishie @moonsunandstars-marie @axelpudim @kaldurahms-lover @my-whole-brain-is-crying @cosmosnkaz @maviscone @lobotomygrl @thingsthatilikeposts @starsicled @staygoldsquatchling02 @zzma-rs @btsgangleader @secretlyapartofthisfandom

Dennis Whitaker x Fem!ERMD!Reader

Overall Synopsis: A car accident leaves you with missing puzzle pieces to assemble—the stumble to blindly pick them out turns into the realization you have not only your career, places, and people to relearn, but also a boyfriend. Where will said puzzle pieces lead you to in the end? And to who, if anyone?

Overall Tropes: amnesia, second chance, strangers to friends, (more than) friends to lovers, idiots in love, slow burn (if you squint), forced proximity, workplace romance.

🫀 chapter-by-chapter overall trope index:

hurt/comfort ✦

hurt/no comfort ✧

angst/resolve ▲

angst/no resolve △

fluff ♡

smut ♥︎

bit of all ✮

1: Lapse ✧ △ (3/14/26)

2: Patience ✦ ▲ ♡ (3/17/26)

3: Routine ✦ △ (3/22/26)

4: Memory Lane ✦ ▲ (3/27/26)

5: Déjà Vu △ ♡ (3/31/26)

6: Home Sweet Home ▲ ♡ (4/8/26)

7: Progress ✧ ♡ (4/16/26)

8: Patients ✦ ✧ ▲ (4/23/26)

9: Remnants ✦ ▲ ♡ (5/5/26)

10: Sprinkles ▲ ♡ (5/18/26)

11: to be revealed…

Series Summary: A fake relationship. A family wedding. 1100 miles between real life and a fantasy.

Pairing: Dennis Whitaker x Reader

Reader Nickname: Lucky

Reader Traits: Plus size female ED resident

Reply or reblog to be added to the tag list

intro/masterlist | part ten

in this part… you plan matt & serena’s visit, fawn over dennis as usual, and then find out about #thefarm

author’s note: sorry it’s been a few days again, life has been chaos! sorry this one is boring and messy but i hope you enjoy - it’ll hopefully be more interesting again soon <3

Masterlist

Summary: After a few days and multiple tense apologies from Santos, Dennis, Trinity, and few other coworkers go out after work to blow off steam. A shot too many leads to a drunk text or two, and everyone learns that Dennis is a sappy drunk.

Don't miss the written blurb! (310 words) 💛

Warnings: Drinking and drunk texting but I think that's it!

After many apologies and at least one in depth conversation with Dennis about Sunny, Trinity only feels worse every day. Every time they come home and she doesn't hear him call her again, she feels like it's her fault. Even when Dennis tells her it's not.

So, in true Santos fashion, she offers to get him drunk. A night out in Pittsburgh with a few of their coworkers turned friends to try and get things off his mind is what leads them to now.

Drunk and sweaty off the edge of the dance floor, Dennis sways with another drink in his hand.

Trinity is buzzed at best, too busy caring for the wasted farmboy to her left, and trying to keep up with the words yelled over the music from Garcia on her right. All of their eyes watching a buzzed Mateo try to dance with a sober, awkward, lovesick eyed Javadi on the dance floor.

Dennis leans into Santos' side, alcohol makes him forget personal space apparently.

"D'you think I should call her?" he slurs out.

"Definitely not, Huckleberry, you're a mess right now. Have you even called her since?"

Dennis gives a small pout at the memory of the night he moved in.

"No, but I misssssssss her. I should call 'er." he says while trying to fish his phone out of his pocket.

"No." she says as firm as she can, pulling his phone from his hand quickly.

Garcia lets out a huff, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, and sips her drink.

"I didn't realize we were just going to be babysitting Huckleberry all night."

"Wha-" Trinity says, cutting herself off as Dennis manages to grab his phone out of her hand from the brief distraction.

"I dont have to call her, I can text!" he says, like he just solved all her problems.

Trinity gives up, turning to Garcia and pulling her towards the dance floor to make up for the wrangling of Whitaker all night.

trin.santos

♫ Club Can't Handle Me - Flo Rida

liked by d.whitaker and 34 others

trin.santos turns out dennis whitaker is a runner when drunk 🏃

d.whitaker I am not, I’m just a curious soul and you lack spirit.

-> trin.santos we found you giving a random wasted girl a “follow your dreams” speech

-> d.whitaker And I truly hope that Brenna from the bar does become Carrie Bradshaw.

a/n: Please ignore the singular time stamp of 4:30 pm. The phone says 12:09, but I forgot to change the time stamp of the actual text bit. I messed up, my bad. 😅💛

taglist: @moonjellyfishie @moonsunandstars-marie @axelpudim @kaldurahms-lover @my-whole-brain-is-crying @cosmosnkaz @maviscone @lobotomygrl @thingsthatilikeposts @starsicled @staygoldsquatchling02

George Weasley

fic recommendation list

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T - meeting you was a nice accident ---

part one part two part three part four

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T - the prefect's partner in crime ---

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T - little miss perfect

T - you need vitamins ---

part one part two part three part four part five part six

T - loved and lost you

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T - ink-stained mischief

T - paying attention

T - echoes of you

T - sirius black's daughter!reader ---

prologue part one part two part three part four part five

T - a little bit of colour

T - moonlight and mischief

T - a second chance at silence

T - letters

T - for green or gold

T - off pitch ---

part one part two part three part four

T - seven years of bad luck

T - neville's sister

T - untouchable

T - good luck!

T - fight for the yule ball heir ---

part one part two part three

T - a christmas gift

T - emerald and ember

T - rumour has it

W - without you

W - oneshots ---

1 2 3 4 5

W - friends forever?

W - arranged

W - driving me mad

W - the girl who hid

W - pretending

W - persistence

W - wish

W - paper hearts

these are all derived and reposted from my first blog @/falsedivide! all fanfics here belong to their discredited authors and I do not own any of them

ps: reblogging fics helps keep the community alive!

Always Second Choice

Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.

Warnings: no use of y/n

Cw: angst, slowburn

Wc: 8k+

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)

It came up the way small things always did — sideways, in the middle of something else, when your guard was completely down.

Wednesday. The library. Your table. George across from you like always, both of you with work spread out between you, the kind of comfortable quiet that had slowly become its own thing.

Hannah had brought up the ball at breakfast and somehow the conversation had followed you here without you noticing, the way certain things did.

"I probably won't go," you said.

You weren't even looking at him. You were writing a sentence. Casual. Like you were talking about the weather.

George's quill stopped moving.

"Why not," he said.

You shrugged one shoulder. "Nobody's asking me."

You were joking.

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind with something in it. Heavy and specific and pressing against the inside of the quiet like it needed somewhere to go.

You kept writing. You didn't look up. You had said it like it was nothing because to you it was nothing — just a plain fact, the kind you had been collecting your whole life and filing away without much feeling.

George said nothing.

You finished your sentence and looked up.

He was looking at you. His face had gone through something and come out the other side into an expression that was very careful and very still. The moment your eyes met he smoothed it out.

"Right," he said. And looked back at his work.

"Right," you agreed, and looked back at yours.

But the quiet was different after that. Fuller. Like something had been dropped into it and was still sinking.

What you didn't know was what happened after George left the library that evening.

He walked fast. Not to the common room. Up.

He had been planning this for twelve days. Twelve days since he had sat across from you in the library and listened to you say nobody's asking me like it was a perfectly acceptable thing for the universe to be doing and decided that he was done waiting for the right moment because the right moment was not going to appear on its own. He was going to have to make it.

He went to the Astronomy Tower.

He had found it three weeks ago — the tower, the windows, the high cold space of it — and thought, this. This was the right place. Not the Great Hall, not some corner of the grounds. Here. Where you could see everything. Where it was quiet in the way that only very high places were quiet.

He had started small. A few floating lights the first night, just to see how they looked. They were too white. Too harsh. He tried again. Warmer this time, gold and amber, softer. Better. He wrote it down in the small notebook he kept for Charms experiments and came back the next night and tried to make them drift properly, slow and easy, not just float in place like lights in a corridor but actually move, like they belonged there.

That took three more nights.

The candles were harder. He kept getting the stabilising charm slightly wrong and they'd gutter out after twenty minutes. He worked through his Charms notes and tried six different variations and the fifth one was almost right and the sixth one held.

He wrote that down too.

The runes took longest. He had seen them in a library book — stabilising runes, for light spells, the kind that settled into stone and lasted and the book made them look simple. They were not simple. He etched the first attempt faintly into the ledge near the window and they shimmered for about four seconds and went dark. He tried again. Closer. He tried again. Better. He tried a fourth time, slower, more careful, going over each line twice, and they shimmered and held and when he moved slightly they caught the light differently and he stood there in the cold tower alone at half past midnight and felt something settle in his chest.

Fred knew.

Fred always knew. George came in late every night for two weeks and Fred said nothing, which for Fred was the most significant thing he had ever done in his life.

Except once.

"You know," Fred said, on night eleven, not looking up from his Charms essay, "most people just ask."

"I know," George said.

"You've been building a whole room."

"I know."

"For a girl who doesn't think anyone's going to ask her."

George didn't say anything.

"Right," Fred said, and went back to his essay.

---

By day twelve George had the lights right and the candles holding and the runes settled in the stone and a Butterbeer kept warm by a preservation charm he had looked up specifically and a pile of cushions he had gathered from various places around the castle over the course of a week and a blanket from the Gryffindor common room that he was hoping nobody would notice was missing.

He was going to ask her today.

In the courtyard. After her afternoon class. Simple and direct and plain, because he had been not plain about this for long enough.

He saw you from across the courtyard. You were sitting on the edge of the fountain with your bag at your feet and a book open in your lap and your hair was doing the thing it did in the wind and you hadn't noticed him yet and you looked so completely like yourself that something in his chest went warm and decided and certain all at once.

He started walking.

He got halfway across the courtyard before someone else stepped into his line of sight.

A boy. Ravenclaw. George knew him vaguely — Potions, two rows over, decent enough bloke. He walked straight to you with his hands in his pockets and said something and you looked up from your book with that small surprised look you had when something caught you off guard, the one where your eyes went wide for just a second before you caught yourself.

George stopped walking.

He watched.

The boy said something else and you closed your book and looked at your hands and then looked back up and your mouth moved and you nodded. Soft. Small.

Yes.

The boy smiled. Said something. You smiled back, a little uncertain, the polite smile you used when you weren't sure what you were agreeing to but were trying to be gracious about it.

George stood in the middle of the courtyard with both hands in his pockets and his jaw tight and watched the whole thing happen from fifteen feet away.

Then he turned around.

Quietly. No drama. He just turned and walked back the way he came.

Fred was at the top of the courtyard steps when George came back through.

He had seen it from the window. He had seen George start across the courtyard and then stop and then stand very still for ten full seconds and then turn around and come back, and he had come downstairs without really deciding to, drawn by some twin instinct that told him this was not a moment to leave unattended.

"George—"

George didn't stop walking.

"I guess I was too late."

"Wait, how do you know she agreed?"

"Doesn't matter."

"George." Fred grabbed his arm and George stopped. Didn't turn around. Just stopped. His shoulders were set in the particular way they got when he was holding something in very carefully. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about." His voice was even. Flat and practiced. "She said yes to someone else. That's — it's fine. It's her choice. I'm fine."

Fred looked at the back of his head. Then past him, through the window, at you still sitting by the fountain, book back open, completely unaware of any of this.

"George," Fred said quietly. "She doesn't know you were going to ask."

"Doesn't matter."

"It does—"

"Fred." He finally turned around. His face was doing the thing where it was very controlled and very tired and both of those things were visible if you knew where to look, which Fred did. "Leave it."

---

Fred left it.

But he looked out the window at you one more time before he followed George up the stairs, and something on his face went quiet and sad in a way that was very unlike Fred and very unlike anything to do with jokes.

"Oh gosh," Fred said, to nobody, very softly.

---

Two days passed.

You noticed George was quieter. Not unkind — never unkind, just a degree more careful. Like he was keeping something very deliberately contained and the effort of it made him slightly more still than usual.

You assumed Quidditch. End of season pressure. You didn't ask because you had no right to ask and that was something you had accepted a long time ago.

You were sad in your own quiet way.

Not the dramatic kind. Just the low steady kind that lived in the background of days, the kind that you had gotten so good at carrying that most people couldn't even see it. You had expected something. After the library, after nobody's asking me landing in the space between you and George going completely still — you had let yourself expect something.

Nothing came.

You packed it away the way you always packed things away. Neatly. In the drawer. Lid closed.

---

When the Ravenclaw boy had asked you in the courtyard you had said you'd think about it because that was the truth. You went back to the dormitory and sat on your bed and thought about it.

You sent him a note saying that you were not attending the ball.

---

"You should be more excited," she told you.

"I'm excited."

"You look like you're doing homework in your head."

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Nothing." You looked at the dress hanging on the back of your wardrobe door. Purple, like Hannah had said, soft and simple and nothing like the things Cecily used to wear, which was fine. You were nothing like Cecily. That was just a fact. "Do I actually want to go to this thing."

"Yes," Hannah said. "You do."

"I don't feel like—"

"You do," she said again, firmer.

"You always say that."

"I'm always right." She tilted her head. "Have you talked to George today?"

Something moved in your chest. "No."

"He seemed—"

"Hannah."

"I'm just saying he seemed—"

"Can we not," you said, quietly. And she heard the quiet in it and stopped.

"Okay," she said, and squeezed your hand once. "Go get some air. You look like you need it."

You went.

---

The courtyard bench was cold and empty and perfect.

You sat down and pulled your cardigan tight and tipped your head back and looked at the sky which was dark and very clear and full of stars and you breathed and let your thoughts go wherever they wanted, which tonight was not a good idea but you were doing it anyway because sometimes you ran out of places to put things.

You thought about the library chair across from you and how it had felt empty before he started sitting in it and how you had gotten so used to him being there that the days he wasn't felt like something missing from a sentence.

You thought about rain on a Quidditch pitch and a shared cloak and breathing the same cold air.

You thought about a staircase and his hand on your waist and I'm going to do something stupid and then the nose boop and you standing alone trying to remember what legs were for.

You thought about how you had packed all of that away very neatly into the drawer and now the drawer wouldn't close properly anymore and things kept slipping out at the worst moments.

Footsteps.

You didn't look up. "Hi George."

He sat down beside you. Not across. Right beside, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours, and for a moment neither of you said anything and the sky was very big above you.

"Cold out," he said.

"Yeah."

"You should have a coat."

"I have a cardigan."

"A cardigan is not a coat."

"It's coat-adjacent."

"It's—" he looked at your cardigan "—a very optimistic choice for November."

"I run warm."

"You're shivering."

"I'm not shivering."

"You just shivered."

"That was a breath."

"A breath that looked exactly like a shiver." He was quiet for a second. Then without saying anything he shrugged off his outer jacket and held it out.

You looked at it. "George—"

"Take it."

"You'll be cold."

"I run warm," he said, completely straight-faced.

You took the jacket. You put it on. It was warm and heavy and too big across the shoulders and smelled like him and you sat there in it and looked at the sky and tried to be normal.

"Excited for the ball in 3 days?" you said.

"Not really." He looked at the courtyard in front of you. "You?"

"Not really," you said honestly.

That sat between you for a moment. Two people who were not excited about the ball, the night before the ball, sitting on a cold bench in the dark.

"Big night though," he said.

"Yeah."

"Dress robes and everything."

"Apparently."

"You'll look—" he stopped himself. Cleared his throat. "It'll be good."

You glanced at him sideways. He was looking somewhere to the left of the fountain, jaw slightly set, doing the thing where he was holding something in very carefully.

---

And then it just came out of him.

Not planned. Not smooth. Just — out, the way things came out of George when he stopped managing them.

"He's a lucky guy," he said. Quietly. To the courtyard. "Whoever's going with you."

You went very still.

"What," you were confused.

You looked at him with hope in your eyes.

"Were you going to ask me," you said.

He turned to look at you.

You looked back. Steady. Plain. Asking the thing you had never asked before because you had spent so long not asking things.

George laughed. But it was the sad kind. The kind that came out when something was too close to funny and too close to painful at the same time and you couldn't quite separate them. He looked back at the courtyard.

"Doesn't matter now, does it," he said.

"George."

"You're going with someone else. It's fine." He said the word fine in the same way you had been saying it for years and something about hearing it in his voice made you want to reach over and shake him slightly. "I'm happy for you."

"You don't sound happy."

"I'm very happy."

"You sound like someone describing a root canal."

"I sound completely—"

"George." You turned to face him properly. He looked at you. "I'm not going with him."

He blinked. "What."

"The boy in the courtyard. I said I'd think about it." You watched his face. "I didn't actually say yes."

He stared at you.

"You—" he started.

"I sent him a note later saying I wasn't going." You tilted your head slightly. "You idiot."

George's face did something absolutely extraordinary.

It went through six different things in about four seconds — confusion, then understanding, then something that was very close to disbelief, and then relief. Not small relief. The full kind. The kind that came from two days of carrying something heavy and being told you could put it down.

He ran both hands through his hair. Completely messed it up. Let out a long slow breath to the sky like he had been saving it.

"Oh thank Merlin," he said. Out loud. To nobody. To the whole dark courtyard and the stars above it. "Oh thank actual Merlin."

"Were you genuinely worried about—"

"I watched him ask you," George said. "From across the courtyard. I was literally halfway to you when he got there first and I just—" he made a gesture that meant he had simply stopped existing for a moment "—stood there."

You stared at him. "You were coming to ask me."

"Yes."

"That day."

"Yes."

"You watched him ask me and you just turned around."

"What was I supposed to do, interrupt—"

"Yes!" You made a small exasperated sound. "Yes, George, that is exactly what you were supposed to do."

"You had already said—"

"I said I'd think about it!"

"It looked like yes!"

"It was polite nodding!"

"How was I supposed to know the difference between—"

"You could have asked!" You threw your hands up. "You could have walked over and said anything and I would have—" you stopped. You had almost said something. You pulled it back.

George was looking at you. Reading your face the way he always read your face, carefully, like there was something in it worth understanding.

"You would have what," he said, quiet.

You looked at the courtyard. "Nothing."

"Hey." He waited until you looked at him. "You would have what."

A beat.

"I would have said yes," you said. Very small. "To you."

The courtyard was very quiet.

George looked at you for one long moment. And then he pointed at you — one finger, very direct, the gesture of a person who had just made a decision and was committing to it completely.

"Tonight," he said. "Astronomy Tower. Ten o'clock."

"What—"

"Come at ten. Don't be late." He was already standing. Already moving. He picked up his jacket from where it had fallen off your shoulders when you'd thrown your hands up. "Wear something warm this time."

"George, what are you talking about—"

"Ten o'clock." He pointed again, backing away. "Don't be late."

"You can't just say that and walk away—"

"Ten o'clock!" he called, already rounding the corner.

And he was gone.

---

You sat on the bench in the cold courtyard completely alone.

No jacket now. Genuinely cold. Completely bewildered.

"What," you said, to the fountain.

The fountain did not respond.

You went at ten o'clock.

Of course you went. You told yourself on every step of the staircase that you were just curious. That you were going because he'd been weird about it and you wanted to know what this was. That you were absolutely not going because something in your chest had been doing a specific warm terrifying thing since he said ten o'clock on those stairs and pointed at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking for months.

You told yourself a lot of things on that staircase.

None of them were very convincing.

You pushed the door open.

And stopped.

The first thing you noticed was the light.

Not the usual cold dark of the Astronomy Tower, not the harsh white of corridor torches. Something warm. Gold and amber, soft and slow, little clusters of light floating near the high arched windows like they had been placed there carefully, like someone had thought about exactly how bright to make them and decided just enough. They drifted. Slowly. Moving through the cold air of the tower like they had nowhere to be and all night to get there.

You stood in the doorway and looked at them for a moment.

Then you noticed the candles. Scattered across the stone ledges, across the floor, tucked into corners. Some of them flickered unevenly, their light a little uncertain, like they had been charmed and recharmed until they finally agreed to stay lit. You could see it if you looked closely — the faint shimmer in the air around them, the trace of spells layered on top of each other, the particular quality of light that came from a charm that had been attempted many times before it worked.

Near the biggest window there was a pile of cushions. Mismatched — a gold one, a blue one, something that was definitely from the Gryffindor common room — stacked next to a blanket that was slightly too small for a full-sized person but clearly meant for sharing. A Butterbeer sat on the stone ledge beside them, still warm. You could feel the heat of it from where you were standing.

And on the ledge itself, just beside the window, there were runes.

Tiny, faint, almost invisible if you weren't standing exactly where you were. They shimmered slightly when you moved, catching the floating light differently depending on your angle. Light stabilising runes. The kind that took time to get right. The kind that, once set properly, lasted.

The kind that took multiple attempts to settle into stone.

You looked at the whole room. At the uneven candles and the layered spells and the mismatched cushions gathered from different places and the Butterbeer kept warm by a charm that had been looked up specifically. At the runes that had been etched and re-etched until they held.

This had not been made tonight.

You understood that suddenly and completely. This had been made over many nights. After classes. After Quidditch. After everyone else was asleep. Someone had come here alone with a wand and a plan and kept coming back, kept trying, kept getting things wrong and correcting them and trying again until it was right.

Until it felt like somewhere worth bringing someone.

Your throat went tight.

George was standing by the window.

He hadn't heard you come in yet. He was looking out at the sky, hands in the pockets of his dark green dress robes — deep forest green, well fitted, the kind that made him look less like someone who caused general chaos in the castle on a daily basis and more like someone who could stop a whole room by walking into it. His hair was messier than usual in the way that meant he had been running his hands through it for the last hour. His jaw was slightly set. He was doing the thing where he was very still on the outside because something on the inside was moving too fast.

---

He looked, honestly, incredibly handsome.

You had known that for a while. You had been refusing to look at it directly for a while. Standing in the warm gold light of this room he had built you were finding it very difficult to refuse.

He turned.

And when he saw you his whole face changed. All the tension in it went out at once, just — released, like he'd been holding a breath for two days and had finally been told he could put it down. The set jaw softened. The careful stillness became something open and warm and so quietly relieved that it made your chest ache.

"You came," he said.

"You told me ten o'clock."

"I know I did." He took a few steps toward you. "I wasn't sure you'd—" he stopped. Looked at you properly. "You came."

"You already said that."

"I know." He didn't look sorry about it. "I'm saying it again."

You looked around the room. At the lights that drifted. At the candles that flickered slightly unevenly. At the runes in the stone. "George," you said quietly. "How long have you been working on this."

He looked at the room like he was seeing it through your eyes for a moment. "A while," he said.

"The candles look like you redid them a few times."

"Six times," he said. "The stabilising charm kept going wrong."

"And the runes—"

"Four nights." He said it plainly. No performance. "I kept etching them wrong. Too deep or wrong spacing. Took me until the fourth try to get them to hold."

You looked at him. "Four nights. Of just — coming here. Alone."

"Well." He paused. "Fred knew. He didn't come, but he knew." A small smile. "He told me I was being excessive."

"You were being excessive."

"Maybe." He tilted his head. "Did it work?"

You looked at the floating lights and the warm glow and the runes shimmering faintly in the stone and the mismatched cushions and the Butterbeer kept warm just for you.

"Yeah," you said. Very quietly. "It worked."

He nodded, like he'd needed to hear that and now he had it. He walked to the cushions and sat down and looked at you expectantly, patting the space beside him.

You sat.

Close, the way you always ended up close to him now, shoulders almost touching, the warm tower air settling around you both.

"So," you said.

"So," he said.

"You built a whole room."

"I built a whole room."

"To ask me to a ball."

"To ask you—" he paused. "Well. To say some things first. And then ask you to a ball."

You looked at him. "What things."

---

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at his hands for a moment. And then he looked up at you and the thing on his face was so honest it was almost uncomfortable to see. No joke. No deflection. Just George, looking at you like you were the most important thing in this room that he had spent two weeks building.

"The first time I actually saw you," he said, "properly — not just knew you existed, actually saw you — you were in the library with your book upside down. Just sitting there with this look on your face like your brain was somewhere else entirely and your body had just stayed behind in the chair." He almost smiled. "And I thought, who is that. Like genuinely. Who is that person and why have I never noticed them before."

"I was paying attention." He said it differently. "There's a difference." He was quiet for a second. "After that I couldn't stop noticing you. Everywhere. I'd walk into a room and find you before I found anyone else and I didn't even realise I was doing it until one day I walked into the Great Hall and my eyes went straight to you before I'd even properly looked around." He shook his head a little. "And I thought — oh. That's just what I do now. That's just the thing my eyes do."

Your hands were very still in your lap.

"And I know you spent all this time convinced you were the background," he said. "That Cecily was the one people looked at and you were just — there. Nearby. Useful." Something moved through his face. "I tried to tell you that wasn't it. For me. That it was never that. But you were so completely sure you didn't count that you literally grabbed my tie and pushed me toward her with your own hands." He looked at you. "Do you remember that."

"I remember that," you said quietly.

"You had your hand in my tie and you looked at me and said please." He held your gaze. "And I turned around and walked away from you. Because you asked me to. Because I thought—" he exhaled "—I thought if I was patient enough you'd figure it out eventually. That you'd see what I could already see. I was wrong about that. Some things you have to say out loud."

The candles flickered softly around you.

"The moment I saw you properly," he said, "I couldn't take it away again. I tried. For about a week I tried to just — not think about it. Not go to the library on Wednesdays. Not find you at meals. And I lasted about four days before I sat down across from you and thought, yeah, no, I can't do that." He laughed, quiet. "I don't want to do that."

"That sounds ridiculous," you said, and your voice came out strange. Thick in a way you were trying to manage.

"It sounds exactly right to me." He said it simply. "Every time I tried to talk myself out of it you'd say something — something sharp, or funny, or you'd look at something a certain way — and I'd think, yeah. Still you. Just keeps being you."

---

You looked at your hands.

"George," you said.

"I know you think you're the background and was never seen," he said. "I know you've thought that for a long time. And I know nothing I say is going to completely fix that because you've believed it for years." He leaned forward slightly. "But I need you to know that from where I'm standing, you are the only person in any room I actually want to talk to. The only one I look for first. The only one I built a whole room in a tower at midnight for because I wanted one moment to feel like someone had thought about you first."

Your eyes were burning.

You were absolutely not going to cry.

"You redid the light charms four times," you said, because you needed to say something that wasn't the thing you actually wanted to say.

"Six," he corrected. "The lights were six. The runes were four."

"George—"

"You're worth six attempts at a light charm," he said. Completely straight. No jokes. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you like something that had always existed and was only now being said out loud. "You're worth more than that. I just ran out of things to redo."

Something cracked open in your chest. Quietly. Like a window being unlocked.

---

You had spent so long believing a very specific story about yourself. The background girl. The useful one. The one who gave things and didn't get to want things back. The one who handed people to Cecily with both hands and then stood slightly to the left and smiled about it.

And here was George Weasley sitting in a tower he had spent two weeks building in the dark, looking at you like you were the reason he had bothered with any of it, telling you the story was wrong.

Not gently. Not with soft words designed to make you feel better. Just — plainly. The way he said everything. Like it was simply true and he didn't understand why it needed to be argued about.

"You could have just asked me normally," you said. Your voice came out wobbly and you hated it. "In the corridor. Like a normal person."

"I know," he said. "But you would have said it's fine and redirected me to Cecily and I would have lost the thread of it again." He joked as he looked at you steadily. "I needed somewhere that was only for this. So you couldn't redirect. So you'd actually have to sit in it."

"I hate that that makes sense," you said.

"I know."

"I hate that you know me that well."

"No you don't."

You looked at him. He looked back.

"No," you agreed, very quietly. "I don't."

---

The floating lights drifted slowly above you. The candles held. The runes in the stone shimmered faintly at the edge of your vision.

"Come to the ball with me," he said. "Tomorrow. Properly. As my—" he paused, and something on his face went slightly uncertain for the first time all evening, which was almost funny, that he had built a whole room and said all of that and the word was the thing that made him hesitate. "As my date."

You looked at him for a long moment.

At the green robes and the messy hair and the candles that had taken six attempts. At the runes he had re-etched four times alone at midnight because he wanted to get it right. At his face, which was trying very hard to be patient and not entirely succeeding, something hopeful and unguarded sitting just underneath the surface of it.

You thought about the library chair across from you. About a scarf landing on your head. About rain on empty Quidditch stands. About a staircase and a thumb moving slightly against your waist and two words said so quietly they were almost just for you.

You thought about all the times you had packed things away in the drawer and all the times the drawer had refused to stay closed.

You stopped packing.

"Yes," you said.

Just that. Just yes.

George's face did the thing. The full thing. The smile that was not the controlled library one or the performative Great Hall one but the real one, the unmanaged one, the one that made him look completely undone in the best possible way, wide and warm and so happy it was almost embarrassing to look at directly.

"Good," he said. And then, because he could not help himself, because he was George and this was simply who he was even in important moments, he reached over and booped your nose.

You made a noise that was not dignified. "I cannot believe you just—"

"Butterbeer?" He was already picking it up and holding it out, completely unbothered, grinning to himself like he had won something.

"You are so—"

"Here." He put the Butterbeer in your hands. Still warm. "I kept it warm specifically."

You looked at the Butterbeer. At him. At the whole warm gold room he had built in two weeks of late nights and wrong attempts and trying again.

"Thank you," you said. And you meant more than the Butterbeer and you think he knew it.

"Any time," he said. And he meant more than the Butterbeer too.

You sat beside him in the tower with the lights drifting slowly overhead and the candles holding and the stars enormous through the wide arched windows, and you drank the Butterbeer he had kept warm for you and said nothing for a long while and it was the best kind of nothing — the full kind, the kind that didn't need anything added to it.

At some point your shoulder settled against his.

He didn't move away.

Neither did you.

You stayed there until the castle started going properly dark and quiet below you and even then neither of you were in any particular hurry to leave.

"George," you said eventually.

"Hm."

"The runes in the stone."

"What about them."

"They're going to be there forever now."

He looked at them. At the faint shimmer of light stabilising runes etched into the Astronomy Tower stone, done four times until they held, permanent now, part of the building.

"Yeah," he said. Like that was completely fine with him. Like he had planned it that way.

You looked at them too.

---

You were looking past him.

At the room behind him. At the lights that drifted unevenly in places, the charm not quite perfectly settled. At the candles that flickered with the quality of something that had been recast too many times, still learning how to stay. At the runes in the stone that were slightly uneven in their spacing because the first three attempts were still faintly visible underneath the fourth, like layers of trying pressed into the wall.

This had not come easily.

You were looking at every place it had gone wrong. Every night he must have stood in this cold tower alone and gotten something wrong and come back the next night anyway. Every failed attempt that was still visible if you looked closely enough. Every small evidence of someone who had decided you were worth the effort of getting it right even when it wasn't working.

Something in your throat closed up.

"I kept getting things wrong," he said, and he had noticed you looking. He glanced back at the room briefly. "The lights kept being too harsh. The candles kept going out. The runes—" he exhaled through his nose "—the runes I had to do four times. Three times I came up here and etched them into the stone and stood back and they just went dark." He paused. "And I'd have to start over."

"Why didn't you just stop," you said.

It came out quietly. Like a genuine question. Like you actually needed to understand.

He looked at you.

"Because you spend every single day doing things for other people," he said, "and acting like you don't need anything back. Like you're fine. Like standing in the background is just how it is and there's nothing wrong with it." His voice stayed even but there was something underneath it. Something with feeling in it. "And I wanted one thing — just one thing — to feel like it was made for you. Like someone thought about you first before they thought about anything else."

Your eyes were burning.

You pressed your lips together. Looked at the runes in the stone. Looked at the candles. Looked anywhere that wasn't his face because his face was going to finish you completely.

"You came here alone," you said. "Every night."

"Yeah."

"In the cold."

"It's not that cold."

"George." Your voice broke slightly on his name. Just slightly. You caught it. "It's December. It's freezing up here."

"I had my jacket."

"You gave me your jacket on the bench earlier."

"I had a different jacket."

You laughed. It came out wet and shaky and surprised, the kind of laugh that happened when you were very close to crying and something caught you off guard and you didn't know what to do with your face anymore. You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth.

"Don't cry," he said softly.

"I'm not crying."

"You're very close to crying."

"I'm not—" your voice did something embarrassing. You stopped. Took a breath. "You spent two weeks in a freezing cold tower alone because you wanted one thing to feel like it was made for me."

"Yes," he said simply.

"That's—" you looked at him finally. You couldn't help it. You looked at him and his face was so open and so sincere and so completely without performance or strategy or any of the usual armour that people wore, and behind him the lights drifted softly and the candles held and the runes he had etched four times shimmered faintly in the stone and it was all just — there. All of it. Undeniable.

Something came loose in your chest.

Something that had been locked in place for a very long time.

"Nobody's ever—" you started. Stopped. Your throat was too tight.

"I know," he said, very quietly.

"I didn't think anyone would ever—"

"I know." He said it the same way. Like he had always known and had been waiting for you to catch up. "That's why I built the room."

You looked at him for a long moment with your eyes full of something you were desperately trying to hold back and your hands in your lap holding very still and the whole warm gold tower around you feeling like something out of a dream you had never quite let yourself have.

"That's the stupidest most wonderful thing anyone has ever done," you said.

The corner of his mouth moved. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "It really is."

He looked at you with that look. The one you had no name for. The one that made you feel like the only thing in the world worth looking at.

"Don't cry," he said again, softer.

"I'm not crying," you said, and a tear fell down your face which completely undermined the point.

He reached over.

Very gently, with just his thumb, he wiped it away.

He didn't make anything of it. Didn't say anything. Just did it quietly and put his hand back in his lap and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting a long time to look at properly.

You breathed.

In and out.

And the room held the both of you in its warm gold light and said nothing else and didn't need to.

---

You pushed open the dormitory door at nearly midnight.

The room was mostly dark. The other girls were asleep. Just one lamp still on, over by Hannah's bed, and Hannah herself sitting up against her headboard with a book in her lap looking at you the moment you walked in.

"Where have you been," she said. "I was about to go looking for—"

She stopped.

She looked at your face.

And went very still.

You took your shoes off. Put your bag down. Sat on your bed. All the normal things in the normal order. You were doing completely fine.

Except you were smiling.

Not a small polite smile. Not the practiced one. The real kind, the unmanaged kind, the kind that kept coming back every time you tried to let your face do something else, rising up again like it had nowhere else to go and had decided your face was where it lived now.

You pressed your lips together.

It didn't help.

Hannah put her book down very slowly. "Why are you smiling like that."

"Like what," you said, to your lap.

"Like you just did something illegal and you think it was worth it."

"I'm not—" the smile came back. You pressed your hand over your mouth. It made absolutely no difference.

"What happened," Hannah said. She was sitting up straighter now. Both feet on the floor. The specific posture of someone who understood that what they were about to hear required their full attention.

"Nothing," you said.

"That is not a nothing face."

"It's just—" you started. Stopped. You looked at the ceiling. You looked at your hands. You looked at the yellow and black of your dormitory curtains which were very normal and very grounding and did not help at all.

"He made something," you said.

Hannah blinked. "Sorry?"

"George." You said it to your hands. "He — he made this whole thing. Like not just asked. He actually made something."

"Made what," Hannah said slowly.

And then it just came out.

All of it.

The Astronomy Tower and the door and the lights that were too warm and too soft and drifted like they had nowhere to be. The candles that flickered unevenly because he had recast them six times and some of them were still figuring out how to stay lit. The mismatched cushions he had gathered from different places over days. The Butterbeer that was still warm because he had looked up a preservation charm specifically. The runes in the stone — the tiny faint ones, barely visible, that shimmered when you moved — that he had etched four times alone at midnight until they finally held.

"He kept coming back," you said, and your voice had gone slightly wobbly somewhere in the middle of all of that and you hadn't fixed it yet. "Every night. After classes. After Quidditch. When everyone else was asleep. He just — kept coming back and fixing things and trying again and—"

You stopped.

You were shaking your head.

Not sadly. In the way you shook your head when something was so beyond what you had prepared yourself for that your whole system needed a moment to catch up.

"The runes are permanent," you said. "He etched them into the actual stone. They're going to be there forever. In the Astronomy Tower. Because he wanted the lights to be right."

Hannah was leaning forward.

Very slowly. Like she was approaching something that might startle.

"And then he said—" you pressed your hand to your mouth again. The smile was completely out of control now. Your eyes were also doing something which was a whole separate problem. "He said you're worth four nights like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it wasn't even something worth making a big deal about. Just — of course. Four nights. Obviously. What else would you do."

"Stop," Hannah said.

"And then he asked me to the ball and I said yes and then he booped my nose."

"He WHAT—"

"And handed me the Butterbeer and acted like absolutely none of it had just happened—"

Hannah stared at you.

"I need a moment," she said.

"Join the club," you said, still staring at the ceiling.

Silence.

The lamp flickered softly between your beds. Somewhere outside the castle an owl called once and went quiet. You lay there with your heart doing something it had apparently decided to do all night and your face smiling in a way you had fully given up trying to stop.

"Wait," Hannah said.

"What."

"You're going with him."

"Yes."

"To the Yule Ball."

"Yes."

"As his — like properly. As his—"

"Yes, Hannah."

She stared at you for a very long moment.

"Oh my god," she said.

"I know."

"Oh my god."

"Hannah—"

"He built you a room." She said it slowly, like she was trying to fit the sentence into the shape of the world and it kept being slightly too big. "He came back every night and fixed things until they worked and then he sat you down in it and told you that you were the first choice." She pressed both hands to her face. "He said that. Out loud. To your actual face."

Hannah made a sound into her hands that was not words.

"Are you okay," you said.

"Am I—" she lowered her hands. Her eyes were wide. "Am I okay. You come in here at midnight with that face and tell me George Weasley spent two weeks building you a room and asked you properly and you want to know if I'M okay?"

"Valid question—"

"I'm not okay," Hannah said. "I am the least okay I have ever been. I have been watching this happen for months and I told you, I said something good is going to happen, and I did not know it was going to be THIS—"

"You're going to wake everyone up—"

"Good!" She grabbed her pillow and held it to her chest. "They should be awake for this. This is important. This is an event."

"Hannah," you said, laughing now, properly, the real kind that came from somewhere you had stopped guarding. "Please."

"Fine." She hugged the pillow. Took a breath. Let it out. "Fine. Okay. I'm calm." She was not calm. Her eyes were still doing something. "You're going with him."

"I'm going with him," you said.

She looked at you.

You looked at her.

"How do you feel," she said, quieter now.

---

You thought about the tower. About warm gold lights and runes in stone and a Butterbeer kept warm and a thumb wiping a tear away so gently you almost hadn't felt it. About George's face when you walked in, the relief of it, the way it had changed completely the moment he saw you had come.

You thought about you're the first choice said so plainly. Like it was simply true. Like it had always been true and he was only just now saying it out loud.

"Terrified," you said honestly.

"Obviously," Hannah said.

"And—" you looked at the ceiling. The smile came back. You let it. "Really, really good."

Hannah smiled. Not her usual bright one. Something softer. Something that was just for this moment, just for you, just for the fact that you were lying on your bed at midnight smiling in a way you couldn't stop at someone who had spent two weeks building you a room because he wanted one thing to feel like you were thought of first.

"Good," she said.

She turned off the lamp.

The room went dark and quiet and you lay there in the dark for a long time, not sleeping, just feeling the shape of something new sitting in your chest where the old familiar weight used to be.

It was lighter than you expected.

It was so much lighter.

A/n: wrote a little longer tdy!

Comment to be tagged on the next part!

undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]

series synopsis - in a world where soulmates were real, fate ties you to ryomen sukuna like some cruel and twisted joke. where people felt their soulmates in soft touches and quiet comfort, all you’ve ever known was phantom pain, sleepless nights, and a violent rage that didn’t belong to you. by the time you finally meet the man ruining your nervous system, the city already knew him as its most feared underground boxer. how would you survive? [mdni 18+]

chapters

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ prologue

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ one - coming soon

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ two - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ three - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ four - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ five - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ six - tbd

series masterlist

∞︎︎

you had come to the conclusion that your soulmate was either a felon or a cold-blooded murderer. 

you were leaning more towards the latter. 

there were only so many times you could wake up with sore ribs and aching knuckles before starting to consider homicide as a genuine career path for your soulmate. 

you were sixteen years old when you began feeling what he felt and he rarely felt happiness. 

at sixteen, you remembered clinging onto hope, faith that things would change for the better. 

at nineteen, you tried denial. optimism even. maybe he just had niche hobbies? 

now, at twenty-two, exhausted and running on three hours of sleep and an unhealthy dependence on caffeine, you had finally settled on acceptance. 

your soulmate was batshit crazy, absolutely insane.

the realization came to you somewhere between waking up at three in the morning because someone was being beaten up and nearly throwing up on the marble floors of your bathroom after feeling a wave of adrenaline so violent, it couldn’t possibly belong to a sane person. 

you blamed him for the dark circles under your eyes, as well as the chronic irritability, insomnia and the emotional damage too. 

“hey sunshine!”

you glanced up from your kitchen island to see shoko freely walking into your apartment as if it was her own. which, considering the amount of time she spent there, perhaps it was. 

“you look awful.” utahime voiced from beside her as she walked towards your fridge, pulling out a bottle of coconut water, “devils dick wouldn't let you sleep again?” 

you stared blankly out at the city skyline stretching beyond the floor to ceiling windows, morning fog curled between skyscrapers while the city below came to life beneath streaks of pale sunlight, almost pink. 

“yes,” you replied bluntly, taking a sip of the black coffee in hand, “unless i’m the one suddenly developing anger issues and an overwhelming desire to commit aggravated assault.” 

shoko snorted into her matcha at your words, though a thin layer of concern blanketed her eyes as she watched you.

you felt it before you saw him, the soft fur brushing against your ankles as you looked down at the familiar tuft of brown, “hi, ani.”

the cat purred against you lowly, circling your feet once before making his way towards the porcelain bowl filled with his breakfast. 

it was a bit sad how your cat was your one companion in the vast penthouse you resided in. technically, the house belonged to your parents who were overseas so often, it was entirely in your possession alongside an absurd monthly allowance and very little supervision. 

most people your age would’ve killed for this kind of freedom. 

a luxury apartment in the middle of the city, prestigious university and a future already carved out neatly in front of you. 

from an outside perspective, your life was perfect. 

except for the stain beneath the surface of everything. him. 

a constant you despised, yet he was all too impossible to ignore. 

most soulmates exchanged softness through their bond. love, warmth and peace. 

you exchanged pain, phantom bruises and what you were fairly certain was unresolved psychological trauma.

“how bad was it?” shoko questioned as she sat on the stool by the island.

you considered the question for a moment. 

truly, last night wasn’t his worst night but it wasn’t his best either. 

“my left thigh kinda hurts.” 

“ooh,” she winced, “that’s new.” 

“yup. he’s branching out,” you brought your cup up to your lips, “lucky me.” 

the soulmate bond manifested differently for everyone, but emotional and physical sensations were universal. tiny things passed between soulmates all the time, including stress, exhaustion, happiness and lust. 

utahime once told you soulmates were a blessing. 

you’d nearly laughed in her face. did she know what a blessing was? 

“maybe he’s in jail.’ shoko offered lazily as utahime immediately shot her a look. 

you looked up at the girl. jail? 

you almost hoped he was, that way the chances of meeting the son of a bitch were practically down to zero. you didn't want anything to do with the sadistic motherfucker. 

your friends found your situation significantly sadder than you did, mostly because all of them had experienced their bond the way it was intended. 

warm, soft and disgustingly tender.

utahime met sora during your graduation trip to greece. it was in the middle of a beach club and you distinctly recalled the way utahime went all quiet, the way they couldn’t look away from each other despite utahime always swearing that fate had handcrafted him specifically to irritate her. 

you don’t remember how they progressed, only that they did. more than you could even imagine.

shoko met percy during your welcome week in freshman year, all anxious minds and bright eyes. you remembered the way shoko used to continuously rub the bridge of her nose because she claimed her soulmate wore the heaviest glasses on earth. then there he was. tousled hair, thick-rimmed glasses and all. 

they’ve been inseparable ever since. 

sometimes, you felt like the worst person alive because you resented them, just a little bit. 

not because they were happy, but because they got softness where you got violence. 

if you closed your eyes, just for a moment, you could recall exactly when you'd first felt him.

while walking through the school hall in first year, the most overwhelming sense of fear overcame you. real and true terror, practically paralyzing you in place. dread that was raw and sharp, crashing into your ribs hard enough to steal the air right from your lungs. 

then came the pain, something you’d grow all too familiar with. 

pain that only got worse with age. 

you found yourself continuously trying to make sense of the colossal question mark that was your soulmate. who was he? what was he so afraid of? why was he in constant pain? 

still, you learned the rhythm of him. 

it was embarrassing, honestly. you knew things about your soulmate that no stranger should know. 

you knew he preferred sleeping on his back because his shoulders were always too bruised to lie on comfortably. you knew he clenched his jaw till his molars hurt when he was furious. you knew he rarely slept through the night and how he carried exhaustion like it was stitched into his bones. 

and worst of all, you knew exactly what his anger felt like and it was ugly. not explosive or wild in a dramatic sense but controlled. 

it sat low in your stomach like a rock, dangerous and waiting. 

sometimes, in the middle of lectures, your chest would suddenly tighten for absolutely no reason and you’d know instantly. 

those were the worst days and they happened more often than you’d like. 

your body would grow tense hours before it even happened, as if it already knew what was coming. your pulse would spike and adrenaline would drip into your bloodstream until your own fingers twitch with restlessness. 

then came the impact. a burst of pain and the metallic taste of blood in your mouth that you could never see. 

panic used to fill you at the sensation and now, you’d barely flinch. 

“again?” utahime would whisper from beside you during your labs. 

you’d simply nod. 

apparently, your soulmate enjoyed fist fighting at eight in the fucking monring. truthfully, you didn’t know what scared you more. the violence itself or how used to it you’ve become. 

because despite everything, the resentment sitting bitter on your tongue every time he dragged you into another sleepless night, you still found yourself searching for him constantly. 

in crowds, trains and crossing busy streets. but you never felt his presence around, so you knew they were futile attempts.

you hated that too. the way your body longed for someone your mind already decided was a monster. the devil reincarnated. 

sometimes, late at night, when the city outside your windows finally quieted down and the skyline blurred into soft hues of orange and pink, you’d feel him lying awake. 

always restless and consistently pained. 

there was something deeply unsettling about sharing insomnia with a stranger. 

you’d feel him shifting endlessly beneath bedsheets, the tension in his shoulders and agitation under his skin. occasionally, the dull ache of old bruises blooming across muscle. 

those nights left you exhausted and you always tried to ignore it at first, but one night, half-asleep and irritated beyond relief, you wrapped your arms around yourself beneath your comforter with a frustrated little sigh. a weak attempt to offer him a semblance of comfort. 

go the fuck to sleep. 

the effect was so immediate, it had your heart growing erratic. 

you felt him still, completely and truly. a calm settled over your chest like a balm on wound. 

after that, it became routine. 

you’d discovered a hack of some sort. 

to get through to him, you have to act as if you are him. 

you’d taken up yoga with hime because it seemed to ease his sore muscles. 

some nights, you’d feel him spiraling so violently with anger so strong, it crawled beneath your own skin. on those nights, you’d sit on your balcony overlooking the starry night enveloping the skyline in a deep blue. a case of markers in hand along with an adults coloring book. one of those complex ones with multiple minuscule shapes.

and color, you did. because it seemed to soothe him. 

you knew it because you could feel it happen in real time. 

the slow loosening of tension beneath skin and the steadying of his heartbeat. then the exhaustion would finally pull him under. 

it felt strangely intimate. 

though it started selfishly because you wanted the rest, you soon began doing it for him. 

sometimes, you wondered if he knew it was you. 

if he realized that the sudden calmness swallowing him whole at three in the morning belonged to somebody else. 

if he knew his soulmate sat forty floors above the city in pretty pink pyjamas and color stained hands trying to soothe a rage she didn’t understand. 

the thought made your chest ache because you knew he knew. 

despite how badly fate had screwed you over, he was still yours. 

and somehow, horrifyingly, you were still his. 

despite it all, he still felt so unbearably human. 

most nights were spent peacefully from that day on, for the most part. 

you could tolerate him now but there were still quieter nights where he couldn’t sleep. 

the bond grew restless during those hours, tension humming beneath your skin like static. you’d feel him, his exhaustion weighing heavy in your own bones despite the fact that you’d done absolutely nothing all day besides write up your report. 

“he’s awake…” you mumbled one night, shoko glancing up from where she sat on the couch in your room, typing up her essay on her laptop despite the deadline being three hours ago. 

“again?” shoko huffed, “does this guy not sleep?” 

you simply hummed once because sometimes he does. when you help him sleep. 

it was all too intimate in the worst way possible. 

at times, you felt like he lived beneath your skin more than inside his own body. 

when you wrapped your arms around yourself, mumbling a go to sleep, somewhere across the city, your soulmate listened. 

one emotion you both felt was the soul-tying loneliness. 

you understood loneliness, grown up and made friends with it. 

it seems he did as well. he dealt with his in a different way than you did yours, though. 

it happened late one night when you were halfway through your night routine. 

at first, it was subtle, a warmth against your lips. 

your movements slowed instantly, fingers hovering near your face as confusion knitted your brows together. what the fuck?

then came another sensation, this time featherlight touches across your jaw. 

your stomach dropped because what followed was the most excruciating pain you’d ever felt, exploding through your body so suddenly, your serum bottle slipped from your hands and shattered across the bathroom floor. 

and you collapsed with it. 

a gasp tore from your throat as agony spread violently beneath your skin, hot enough to make your vision blur. it felt all wrong, burning and suffocating. 

you knew exactly what was happening. 

he was touching someone else. 

you remembered shoko mentioning it once after utahime drunkenly asked too many questions about soulmate bonds during freshman year. 

physical intimacy with someone who wasn't your soulmate caused backlash through the bond. 

“apparently, it feels awful,” shoko stated, “super painful.”

awful? that fucking liar. 

this wasn’t just awful. you felt like you were burning. 

you curled against the cold marble tiles, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach as another wave of pain hit hard enough to drag a broken sound from your throat. it felt like being split apart from the inside out as tears blurred your vision. 

“stop…” you whispered shakily, though you didn’t know who you were talking to anymore. 

him? fate?

the pain built as you continued to feel touches that weren’t yours, warm skin that wasn’t yours. 

someone else’s hands against him. 

it made you sick. 

humiliation mixed violently with heartbreak until you could barely breath through it, till you sobbed against yours hands. 

messy and continuous tears soaked your sleeves as you sat on the bathroom floor, fury and devastation clawing through you so violently, you didn’t knwo what to do. 

“i hate you!” you choked out as your lungs burned. 

you felt the sudden stillness instantly, followed by a hollow feeling in your gut.

it hit your ribs so unexpectedly, your chest caught. 

guilt. real guilt. 

your expression twisted immediately. that sick son of a bitch. 

that only angered you more. 

you dug your nails into your palms hard enough to break skin and pain shot through you then, wanting him to feel it, to hurt the way he always made you hurt. 

you slammed your first against the tile once, twice then again as your knuckles split open eventually but you barely noticed. 

then suddenly…warmth. 

you went still, breathing shaking unevenly as the sensation wrapped around you in an unfamiliar fashion. 

it was a pair of arms, strong as they held you. 

your breathing stuttered as you processed what was happening. 

was he…hugging himself? like how you would? 

he was holding himself because he didn’t know how else to reach you, to console you. 

your anger cracked slightly at the edges because for the first time in years, he felt close. not in his usual worrying or irritating way.

and no matter how much you hated yourself for it, you leaned into it. 

because after all, you were just as lonely as he seemed to be.

after that day, even following his piteous attempt at comfort, you were vengeful. 

gone were the nights you’d hold yourself, him, to sleep. gone were the late night drawings or the yoga classes, the massages for his sore muscles and the relaxing teas. 

gone was your gentleness along with any semblance of hope you had clung onto like snow on mountains. 

you fucking hated fate. 

∞

“maybe he’s dead.” shoko offered as you glanced up at her from the blaring screen of your laptop, illuminating your face in the darkness.

utahime shot her a look as you sighed gently. 

you weren’t sure if her words were meant to console you but you weren’t sure they did. 

you hated him, yes, but did you want him dead? 

the thought sent a pang up your chest. no, you didn’t.

because you hadn’t even met him yet. 

where all your friends had already fulfilled their bonds, you were left pondering the possibility of fate playing a sick trick on you, 

“i mean, with all the fights he gets into, i wouldn’t be surprised.” shoko continued, her words trailing off as she caught utahime’s glare. 

you shook your head once, ignoring the tightness beneath your ribs, “if he was dead, who the fuck am i feeling every day?”

shoko hummed once, as if pondering the thought, “maybe he’s in hell!”

now, that seemed probable. 

rain tapped gently against the windows while blond played softly in the background as you returned your attention back to the half-finished page in front of you.

it was oddly peaceful in a way you weren’t used to. which meant he was either asleep or unconscious. 

honestly, both possibilities reassured you equally so. 

“you need to leave your castle, princess.” utahime smiled mockingly from her place on your carpeted floor as you rolled your eyes gently, fingers pausing atop your keyboard. 

“why?” you muttered, thumb absentmindedly rubbing soft circles against your wrist. 

“um, because of human interaction?” shoko dropped onto your bed, arms and legs starfished across the plush white sheets atop your king sized bed. 

you rolled your eyes once more, “and you guys are…?”

both girls grumbled at your response making you smile softly, looking back down at your laptop as ani purred from his place curled at your feet. 

you did leave your home! how else would you shop? or attend your lectures? or get your sixth coffee of the day?

“there’s a party downtown tonight.” shoko grinned at you genty, practically soft-launching the idea as you scoffed once. 

“ew.” 

“don’t say ew with that stupid face like you’re old!”

“m’not old,” you shrugged, “i’d just rather do anything else.”

shoko huffed, sitting up on your bed before walking towards your place on the couch, "you always do anything else! you’ve been so down recently, just let us help!”

you almost wanted to laugh. a party wouldn’t help by any means. 

instead, you swallowed quietly, looking back down at your laptop. 

he had been strangely distant lately, ever the rage-filled psychopath, but quieter somehow. you didn’t know if you liked it or not. 

“c’mon,” utahime pleaded, “just one night!” 

before you could answer, you felt it again. 

a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins so suddenly, your jaw clenched. 

the room went quiet as utahime’s expression shifted, “devils dick?”

you sighed inwardly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. 

it was a familiar feeling, hot and electric and so fucking alive beneath your skin. you didn’t want to wait for the pain to follow. 

“okay.” 

the girls exchanged a look. 

“okay?!” shoko exclaimed with a grin as you sighed gently. 

“that’s what i said.” 

her squeals were met with silence as you tried to calm your-his-breathing. 

there was this weird feeling in your gut, deep and carved in stone, like tonight was significant. 

it felt almost damning.

∞

an - just a little glimpse into this worlddd! no kuna in this yet so :( but u guys will meet him ch1 !! also this is prob gonna be a shorter seriessss like 6-8 parts!

anyways lmk what u guys thinkkkk and if u want more of this au!

my mouth hasn’t shut up about you, since you kissed it. the idea that you might kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well, before any kiss.

summary following your six month leave, you’re back at ptmc ready to continue your residency. you tell yourself you’re fine. the weight is manageable. the rush of the hospital should keep your thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. for a while that mindset will work, but there will be times, fleeting, where you remember why you left, and will have trouble remembering why you’re back. he won’t make it any easier, and he’s not going to let you leave again, and maybe you aren’t ready to leave either. he’s already figured you out, and he’s tightening his grasp on you, ready to hold you steady in the palm of his hand.

warnings fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, conservative usage of y/n, suggestive language, slight angst, sexual references, mostly fluff, reader’s nickname is gerbil (explained later), the author tries to be funny 😔 age gap (29/50), mentions of grief and loss, estranged parent(s), reader often misses social cues. (will include chapter specific warnings) past emery x reader (if you squint) ambiguous ending

a/n came across this tweet, after a night of binging the pitt, and here we are now.

MASTERLIST

01. day one 11. day fifty-one

02. day four 12. day fifty-eight

03. day eleven 13. day sixty-four

04. day twenty 14. day sixty-nine

05. day thirty 15. day seventy-five

06. day thirty-one 16. day seventy-six

07. day (nth) 17. day eighty-two

08. day (null) 18. day ninety-three

09. day forty-one 19. day one-hundred

10. day fifty 20. epilogue

EXTRAS

Just 5.

I can do so many wonderful things in that period of time.

mdni • 18+ only

summary: After a run-in with Amy forces you to accept your feelings for Dennis, your post-4th-of-July hangover forces you to confront him face to face

tags/warnings: mild angst (as in extremely mild), mean!reader (still struggles with intimacy what can i say), domesticity, pt.2 of sweetheart but can be read on its own

wc: 1.6k

Even when the sun has long set, heat radiates off every surface. On aching feet and with an ever-tightening tension in your shoulders, you swing open your locker and as the night shift trickles in, allow yourself the momentary luxury of separation. Eyes shut, headphones on. No music but they press a soothing pressure against your ears, with your head leaned back against the lockers. An exhausted sigh turns into deep, steadying breaths and your shoulders sag. Before you can even notice yourself drifting off, the metallic creak of a nearby locker jolts you awake and Santos is nudging you. First, to get your attention, then to get you out of the building. 

part 1

Ever since your confrontation with Steve a week ago, he's been losing his mind. A week ago he was the one telling you to calm your drinking, and now he's drowning himself in every alcohol imaginable.

Nancy's guilt after your confrontation with Steve eats her alive as well. She realized Steve's love and attention was never worth as much as the friendship she shared with you. A couple of days after the confrontation, Steve revisits old wounds that don't get to heal.

"You still won't say it. Why?"

"Because this is bullshit, Steve! It's always been bullshit! She didn't deserve this and you know it!"

You always told Steve you loved him. He never had to beg or deal with silence after he said those three simple words.

Steve runs his hand through his tousled hair.

"We were never going to work, Steve. Not ever, and especially not now. It's over, Steve."

Steve looks around at his empty bottles as his arguments with you and Nancy replay in his head.

But what truly haunts him? Your tear stained face that looked at him with completely broken eyes.

He takes an empty champagne bottle and tosses it across the room before sliding down to the floor and burying his face in his hands.

-

"Okay, what about this one?"

Eddie holds up a red denim vest with yellow lettering on the back that says 'Slasher' and a graphic design of a demon below it.

You take a sip of your Cherry Slurpee as you look at him to try and picture him wearing it.

"Red might be a bit...loud on you."

Eddie looks at the vest with furrowed brows before finally making a decision. "Guess you're right. The black one, it is."

You pout as you realize you're out of your drink.

"Does the lady need more fuel?"

"That, and a pretzel."

"Deal."

-

As you and Eddie walk for fuel, you realize you have to walk past Scoops Ahoy. You inwardly cuss at yourself for forgetting it was in the mall in the first place. Eddie seems to notice your hesitation.

"I'm gonna go get our pretzels and we can meet back up for the drinks." You walk off before Eddie can say anything. He scratches his neck with a sorrowed expression before going into the Scoops Ahoy.

"Hey there, Rockin' Robin. Slow day, huh?"

"Tell me about it. Is she...okay?"

"She's doing a bit better. Haven't seen her pout most of the time here. I think you and her should talk."

Robin nods and looks down at her fingers in guilt. "I didn't want to be dragged into Harrington's shit, but. I did anyway. I want her to know that I miss her and I'm sorry she had to find out one of her closest friends hid something from her."

"She deserves to know that." Eddie says.

"Yeah...so, what'd you buy her with the money I gave you?" She nods towards the bag he's holding.

"A Cherry Slurpee, and she's on her way to get pretzels...and-a-vest-"

"The vest is yours, isn't?" Robin deadpanned.

"Questions, Buckley, Questions!" Eddie shouts before leaving the shop.

-

You meet Eddie at the center of the mall with the pretzels.

"You're a lifesaver, Y/N."

Eddie bites into hi pretzel before noticing you take small bites because you're sad all over again.

"She misses you, by the way."

Your head whips towards Eddie. "She...does?"

"Mm-hm." He muffles with a full mouth. "Said something about being dragged into Steve's shit-"

You practically shove your pretzel onto his chest. "Be right back!"

Eddie just shrugs and continues his pretzel with a small grin because his playing mediator is finally paying off.

-

When you rush into Scoops Ahoy, Robin looks surprised to see you.

"Hey, I'm about to go on lunch, but if you want something..."

You walk up to the counter and fiddle with your fingers. "I actually wanted to talk."

Robin makes you a free banana split to go with her own when you both sit down and talk.

"Eddie told me you miss me and how you felt dragged into Steve's shit. I don't think I was ever truly angry at you just...hurt. Because I deserve the truth no matter how much it hurts me."

"I'm really sorry. I can be such a talkative loudmouth until it actually counts. You're right, you deserve to know the truth. I...have missed you, by the way."

You give her a soft smile. "Ditto. At least you're...easier to forgive. More than Wheeler, in my book."

Robin eats a scoop of ice cream. "Who knew Miss Perfect could be so messy? And I keep having to cover for Harrington because he hasn't showed up to work."

"Yeah... Who knew? And as for Steve, well... He was never perfect."

-

Eddie's drive taking you back home was chaotic to say the least, but he's happy you and Robin are okay.

"Try to take it easy, okay? Guys can be...idiots to say the least. Don't know what we've got until we've lost it."

It's still hard for you to talk about your problems with Steve, but Eddie doesn't force you to do so.

"Steve just...makes me feel...replaceable. I have friends who love me but for some reason it hurts much more when someone you love in a romantic way...doesn't love you back. I don't even know if I'm mourning him or if I'm mourning the time I spent with him where he was probably thinking about..her."

Eddie gives your response some thought to make sure he answers correctly.

"If it helps, I don't find you replaceable. Matter of fact, the group has gone to shit since you haven't been around. I've been the therapist friend lately. No one's really asked me how I feel about the situation because they assume I'm just too...dumb."

Your brows furrow slightly at a side of Eddie that you haven't seen at all.

"Robin, I mean she has a right to be upset. Harrington and Wheeler two timing and putting her in the mix was just...you don't do that. Ever since you've been gone everything's just... I don't know who to call my friends anymore. And, Jonathan and Argyle are too busy being high to even comprehend anything. I mean, if you're higher more times a day than me, then you've definitely got problems."

His self depreciating joke earns him a laugh and he grins slightly when he hears it.

"But I can say for sure that you deserve the title of a friend. And that things were a lot better when you were around."

His praise earns an appreciative blush from you.

"Well madam, this is your destination. I'm only a phone call away if you need anything."

"Thanks for today, Eds. Wear the vest next time?" You propose.

"Oh totally. That thing will not leave my body, miss."

You shut his van door and give him a wave before going inside.

Eddie doesn't leave right away, and his stare on you lingers to make sure you make it inside before he drives off once you do.

-

6 PM

During some well deserved "you time" since you got home, you have on some pajamas as you're watching a sitcom.

When you hear a knock on the door your brows furrow.

"What the?"

You swing open your door, expecting it to be Eddie back for more shenanigans. Your preparation to say something witty dies in your throat.

jack abbot x intern!reader

summary Jack has been ignoring you for days and you've finally reached your limit.

word count 2.7k

contains angst and no comfort and of course medical inaccuracies

authors note this is my first ever fic so pls bear with me if it sucks

part one part 2 (coming soon)

Platonic!OT8!SKZ x Assistant!Reader // 1,4k words.

summary: A temporary assistant for Stray Kids unexpectedly becomes their emotional support system and found family, discovering that what was meant to be a short-term job turns into a place where she truly belongs—and is asked to stay.

authors note: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS 🥹❤️ i’ve been thinking of making more dad!skz since you guys loved the previous ones, any ideas?

🏷️: comfort, slow burn(?)

Masterlist.

dennis whitaker x reader (kinda) | reader is moping lmao angst galore ENJOY

Jealousy is a thorn stabbed in your heart. Pumping poison throughout your body, rage reaching every nerve like a fire burning its way through a forest.

Amy this. Amy that. Amy Amy Amy. It’s all you’ve been hearing. Not just today but for months. Dennis Whitaker, the kind-hearted man that he is, with an abundance of empathy to share with everyone, has been looking after Amy, her baby and her farm ever since her husband died.

Tragic. Such a young, hopeful couple with their future torn away from them. A young child who will never get to meet their father. And a young widow left alone. A young widow who latched onto a gentle man who has been helping her grieve.

You can't exactly blame her for keeping Dennis all to herself. Hell, if you had the chance, you'd snatch him right up and never let go.

But that’s just the thing. You can't. Dennis Whitaker never belonged to you. And at this point, he never will.

Although you love him and have loved him ever since he stepped foot into PTMC’s ED for the first time 10 months ago, Dennis Whitaker is not yours. Not to have or to hold. Never to be with in sickness or in health.

Of course, you’d always cherish him. Through every trauma that came your way. Through every late shift and every bar crawl. The soft gestures shared in the eye of the storm that is The Pitt’s chaos and even softer words exchanged after every shift. You remember it all.

Dennis’s calloused hands holding yours after you lose a patient. His knowing eyes glancing at you when you nod off while charting 3 hours after your shift ended. His steady presence calming you down after dealing with a brutal case.

You remember it all.

You love every moment with him.

But apparently, he doesn’t seem to think the same. With the way Dennis greets Amy’s baby with hushed baby talk. Familiar in a way that utterly guts you. The way Dennis hops into the driver’s seat, wanting to drive them all to Amy’s farm despite the hellish 15 hour Fourth of July shift you’ve all had. That rage that crawls through burns even stronger. You can't control the jealousy rising within you.

Your feet move to run away, anything to stop seeing the scene in front of you. But of course, the universe hates you.

“Hey! You did great today, get home safe yeah?” Dennis’s voice, acknowledging you and wishing you well, usually brought butterflies to your chest. Those butterflies are nowhere to be seen, instead replaced by daggers. Clawing at your lungs, spiking your heart rate and making your breath hitch. You forcefully push down the tears welling in your eyes, as you respond.

“Yeah, will do, Den. Drive safe…” Your lacklustre response was barely noticed. Dennis is driving off into the night. With her next to him.

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck.

-

The fireworks burst and burn brightly. The neon colours lighting up the rooftop and the tired faces of your co-workers. You didn’t want to be alone. You wanted to at least pretend everything was normal. The loud bangs distract everyone else from you in the back.

Your tears finally escaped, leaving hot trails on your cheeks, lips quivering as you feel like the love of your life is drawing further and further away from you.

The fireworks burst and burn. The thorn in your heart pierces all the way through, and now you don’t know what to do.

can you tell the last ep destroyed me | also i didnt know how to end it lol | header by @/kentuckykitten, divider by @/pepsipoet