#and suddenly I feel like I am.. running out of time

[luvvyouforever]

i am my father's daughter - declan o'hara x rupert's daughter!reader

synopsis: you knew you shouldn't be doing this, flirting with your dad's friend and business partner. but he's so irresistible!

content: age gap relationship (ages not specified), maud doesn't exist au, not very canon compliant just ignore it, nsfw themes, dbf trope, accidental tense switching (ignore it)

author's note: declan is sooooo hunky #needthat also this is a rather short piece but if you'd like to see a continuation of dbf declan, i would absolutely provide <3

you're quite positive that nobody has looked as good in a t-shirt as declan o'hara does now in the front of the priory's living room, leading an open discussion about what is next for the budding production company. his biceps flex underneath the thin material when he lifts his arm in a gesture and despite your efforts to remain focused on the conversation at hand, it's difficult when all you've been able to think about since he moved in is declan.

for a month or two after he and his two daughters moved in, he had been the sole object of your daydreaming. he was so strong, so intelligent, so witty on the television, so...everything.

however, there was little that you could do on that front, considering the last name that appears on your birth certificate and the fact that rupert campbell-black, your father, and declan hated each other. it was a rather difficult watch, the night declan interviewed him, but with rupert bonding with declan over their love for their small families, it became much easier to slink your way into his presence. thankfully.

then, it became regular to see declan in your home, or to see you and rupert in his. he was hard to depart from, what with his deep, thick accented voice and his wavy hair he kept running his hands through, and that t-shirt, that damn t-shirt. you lived in pure, unending agony for a while, having to be so close to him all the time without being able to give in to this torturous desire.

but then he started blatantly running a large hand over your back as he passed behind you and then he started making eye contact with you across the room and then he helped you with car troubles where he stood tantalizingly close behind you while showing you how to check your oil.

your father doesn't need to know that you've kissed and made out with and sucked off his friend and business partner. right?

when declan finishes his speech in the front of the living room, he makes his way through the crowd to the table in the back with a few drinks and refreshments laid out by taggie where you just so happen to be standing.

his eye contact with you is unwavering as he comes closer and closer to you and there's a smirk growing on his lips.

"could you be any more obvious with your ogling there, dear?" he says quietly once he reaches your side.

you scoff, but you know what he's saying is true. "i wasn't doing anything of the sort, mr o'hara. i'm just admiring your leadership and passion for venturer, is all," you whisper.

he leans against the table, then, watching as the crowd before him mingle with each other, completely oblivious to the conversation happening between you and him. even your father seems to be swept up into conversation on the other side of the room. he turns his neck side-to-side, clearly aware of the way that his shoulders and back tense underneath the tight shirt. your eyes betray your previous statement as they immediately flick to the sight, then flick downwards.

he chuckles and takes the smallest of steps closer to you. "so you like the shirt, then, i take it?"

a small blush overtakes your cheeks and you refuse to meet his eye. suddenly, you feel his body tilt towards yours, lips just before your ear.

"i can let you take it off me if you come over tonight."

his deep voice reverberated through your body, sending chills down your neck and spine. subconsciously, your back arched from the table you were learning on and he let out another laugh.

a few hours later, you found yourself slipping quietly out of penscombe, positively giddy. the walk to the priory was one you had done plenty of times and you knew it like the back of your hand, really. slowly, the centuries old building came into view and several feet up the wall was a window with its lights still on. declan's.

as he'd done before, he met you at the back door of the home, one that leads into the kitchen, a smug look on his face.

"you took my offer quite readily," he said. his big frame leaned against the door and he crossed his arms. still adorning him was that damn t-shirt.

"as if you weren't kicking your feet waiting for me," you retort, then come to stand before him.

he shakes his head then and a sly smile tilts the corners of his mouth up. he removes his body from the frame and steps to the side to let you inside. as you pass him, a firm hand comes down on your ass, making a small yelp escape your lips.

you turn suddenly and shoot him a glare. he just pats you again, a gesture to keep you moving forward. "get on up there, little minx. before your daddy realizes where you've gone, huh?"

you turn then and head for the stairs that lead up to his bedroom. declan didn't have to tell you much twice.

[grahstumhurts]

Stressed out

Pt 1 of 2

A/N Still working on pt2 which will include smut, working on a couple other things so will be taking my time to make sure its good quality.

Request

Fluff

Lara x Megan x Biker Fem!Reader

Content - Cursing, elusion to sex

The way the wind feels when you are the only one on the road, it's ethereal. I blast my yearning playlist through my headphones. Currently on is “Dive” by Olivia Dean. I scream-sing down the highway, The dashboard clock screaming 1 am in my peripheral vision. My curfew set by Sophia had been Midnight after multiple late night rides. I pull off the highway into the streets of the neighbourhood, the streets eerily quiet and my bike's engine roaring through the streets. I turn off the engine and walk the bike up the driveway into the garage of the house, Where a very mad looking Lara and Megan appear in the doorway of the entrance to the inside of the house. I'm fucked.

“Where have you been?” Lara looks me up and down, checking me for any signs of a crash or a fight. “You do know you are one hour late, right?” 

“We literally had to force Sophia to sleep. She has an early morning tomorrow and you know how stressed she gets when you go out for late night rides like this.” Megan sighs as I pop the kickstand, pull off my helmet and  hang up both my jacket and helmet on the hanger next to the door.

“I know, But I've been stressed as well and this is one of the things that helps me ground myself.” I confess to the two of them “But I'm here right? Not damaged!” I stupidly grin at them, both looking very disappointed.

“Stressed about what exactly?” Megan asks as we step into the house, I slip off my shoes and kick them off to the side.

“It's nothing serious,” I try to brush it off. To be honest, I've been stressed about my feelings for them. Its not exactly a secret that I have a crush on both of them. I mean who wouldn't, right? Its Lara Raj and Megan Skiendiel, both very very attractive women with the gravitational pull of a fucking blackhole. It's pretty hard to NOT have a crush on them. 

“You know we are all here for you, whatever you wanna talk about.” Lara pushes a stray tuft of hair away from my face “Whenever you're ready to talk.” Lara sits next to me and puts her legs up on my lap. She suddenly sits up, seeming to have an epiphany of sorts.

“We’re still mad at you” She grips my chin, holding it in place to force me to make eye contact with her “Megan, you know how we should punish her?” She smirks at Megan who's leaning against the armrest of the couch

"I think i know some ways to teach her a lesson" Megan's hand slips onto my shoulder "Pretty thing isnt she?" She tucks my hair behind my ear.

"Such a shame that shes so," Lara pauses, "Naughty" She says it so perfectly, with a sultry voice one cant resist. She leans in closer to my ear, "You'll take what we give you right, Baby?" I nod eagerly, a sheen blush covering my cheeks.

"Good girl, YN" Megan runs a hand through my hair.

I'm definitely fucked tonight.

[agoldengalaxy]

Goodnight, Moon

read on Ao3

words: 2976

“Where…am I?” Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. “Don’t worry, Stanford,” he had said the last time they spoke. “He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.”

--

A still, calm ocean met the dark sky on the horizon, littered with stars that reflected in the water below. If Ford took off his glasses, it was easy to blur the line between the two completely, like perhaps they were sailing along a star-studded sky instead, with a mission to land on the moon itself.

Ford almost scoffed at his own thoughts as he stood on the deck of the Stan o’ War II, his elbows against the railing. This wasn’t a thought an accomplished man with twelve PhDs would have. It reminded him of storybooks he used to have as a young child, the storybooks Stan and his mother liked to listen to him read aloud every Friday night.

Then again, he thought, smiling a little to himself as he removed his glasses, watching the sprawling blue in front of him blur into one big mess, his PhDs weren’t really his focal point anymore. And, perhaps, it wasn’t so terrible to think like a child again. With Stan by his side, it was hard not to feel like they were still ten years old, declaring themselves the Kings of New Jersey and sailing along the water. The only difference now was that they were actually fighting real monsters, not the ones they made up in their heads.

Ford placed the glasses back on his nose, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing here, but the late night chill was relentless. Despite the fact that he would have liked to stand out here and stargaze for hours, he released a small sigh and turned around, stepping quietly back into their cabin.

The door slid shut with a soft click behind him, and he glanced toward the small living area, a fond smile easing its way onto his lips. Stan was asleep, a mess of limbs too long to fit on that old couch, more or less covered by a small knit blanket, his snoring quiet and steady. He’d fallen asleep watching Cash Wheel, and Ford had made sure the blanket was at least over his torso and the TV had been turned off before stepping out for some fresh air.

A month after Weirdmaggedon, and it was still quite a relief to see his brother. Ford often found himself thinking things were too good to be true, that he didn’t deserve Stan’s loyalty after everything that had happened, that maybe one day he’d wake up and Stan would be gone.

He sighed softly, still smiling a little to himself. The thoughts were unfounded, as silly as the childish thoughts he had earlier. Stan wouldn’t leave, because that just wasn't who Stan was.

After one last look, Ford moved toward the kitchen, intent on getting some water before turning in for the night, himself. It was certainly still a strange feeling, he thought, as he watched the faucet fill the glass steadily. To be able to sleep whenever he wanted, without fear of being hurt, or fear of hurting others. He grimaced at the memory of waking up on the roof of his house with blood pooling from his right eye, or from the countless sleepless nights he spent on the run from interdimensional beings intent on his destruction.

He turned off the tap and picked up the glass. The past was the past.

He’d almost been too deep in his thoughts to notice that the snoring had stopped in the other room, or to hear quiet, unintelligible swear words. Suddenly, Ford’s bad memories disappeared. He took his undrunk glass and stepped out of the kitchen. “I told you that your neck would end up quite sore if you -”

Almost unable to control it, Ford froze in place, his unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Alarm bells in his mind screamed at him as he looked at Stan, standing rigidly in the middle of the room. His eyes were wide, staring back at Ford like a deer caught in headlights, and it was so unlike Stan that it sent a shiver down Ford’s back.

What really scared him was that this exact expression reminded him of that day, back in the woods.

For a moment, they only stared at each other, seemingly unsure of who would speak first. Ford knew it should be him, he knew he had to ask, but it suddenly felt impossible, like he’d somehow swallowed his own tongue and hadn’t realized it. The silence seemed to stretch out for eternity, until Stan balled up his fists at his sides nervously.

“Where…am I?”

Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. Don’t worry, Stanford, he had said the last time they spoke. He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.

A part of him wanted to cry, another part of him wanted to scream and throw his glass at the wall. Instead, he knew he had to be there for him above all else. He cleared his throat, placing the glass down on the counter, and took a step closer. “You’re on the Stan o’ War II,” he answered as calmly as he could through a trembling voice. “Do you remember who you are? Do you…remember who I am?”

Panic flashed along Stan’s face, and it took every fiber of Ford’s being to stay infinitely still, to be the calm in the storm. Panicking along with him wouldn’t solve anything, despite the fact that it felt like his chest might cave in on itself.

Suddenly, Stan blinked, his eyes shining in the dim light. “You’re…my brother,” he managed, his voice strange and rough, like he didn’t even recognize it. He cleared his throat. “I don’t, um…I don't remember anything else.”

Ford forced air through his lungs, nodding quietly. It was temporary. He just had to be there for him, like Fiddleford said he should. The fact that he remembered that much, at least, had to be a good sign. “That’s right. I am your brother.” He took another step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, gentle enough that he could pull away if he wanted to - but instead, he leaned into it. “My name is Stanford, and…you are Stanley.”

“Stanford…” he repeated, drawing out the name like he was trying to hear how it sounded in his own voice. “Wait, we’re both -”

“Yes,” Ford huffed a laugh at the absurdity of hearing the reaction they got whenever they introduced themselves to someone new, from Stan himself. “Our parents weren’t very creative.”

“Yeah, seems like it.” They stood there for a moment, and Stan shifted his weight uncomfortably. “So…uh…what’s this Stan o’ War II? Some sorta secret base or somethin’?”

Despite the situation, Ford smiled. It was still so much like Stan it almost hurt. Gently, he began guiding him toward the door to the cabin. “Come, I’ll show you.”

The door swung open, and they both stepped out onto the deck, the late night breeze immediately ruffling their clothes and hair, the darkness all-encompassing. Starlight reflected in Stan’s eyes as he stepped forward in some disbelief, looking out at the sprawling ocean.

“Heh. The stars look…real bright in the water,” Stan murmured, and Ford couldn’t help but wonder if the amnesia had given him the opportunity to read Ford’s mind.

For a few long, stretched-out seconds, the only sound was the gentle crash of waves and a few stray birds that had yet to turn in for the night. Ford tried his best not to stare at Stan, not to overwhelm him. He stared out at the horizon again, but didn’t blur the lines this time. He let the clear picture span out before him - beautiful in its own way.

“Ford…”

The sound of his name almost startled him, but when he turned, he was much more startled by what he saw. “Stanley! Are you alright?!” A tear was rolling down Stan’s cheek, and out of anything that might have panicked Ford before, this was the top of the list. His brother didn’t cry. He reached forward, placing one hand on Stan’s shoulder, the other on his opposite arm. “W-What is it? Are you hurt?”

Ungracefully, Stan sniffled, giving him a watery smile. “We…we’re really adventuring together? After all this time…”

Ford had always thought himself a tough nut to crack, but he could feel his chest grow tighter with the pressure. Breathing became much harder, as if he were standing atop a high mountain. The burning in his eyes was something he had nearly forgotten the feeling of, but here it was, and he couldn’t tell if he liked it or hated it. He returned the smile, but when it felt like he wouldn’t be able to keep it on his face, he pulled Stan close, hugging him tight.

“Yes, Stan,” he breathed, shaking with the effort of trying to keep his eyes from leaking. “We are.”

Hands slowly came up to return the hug, and they stood there for a long while. They stood there until the shaking was replaced with shivering, and Ford drew back from the embrace, looking at the face that was so like his own, yet so different all the same.

“Come. We will get sick if we linger out here any longer.”

Stan didn’t argue, and together they stepped back into the warm cabin, wordlessly heading toward the couch. Despite the revelation he’d had before, Stan looked rather worn-out. “My head is pounding.”

“I suppose that’s part of the long-term effects…” Concernedly, Ford headed toward the counter where he’d left his glass and grabbed it. When he turned back around, Stan was staring at a framed picture on the wall. Ford carefully walked back to the couch, sitting down and placing the glass in Stan’s hands himself before lifting his gaze to the photo, too. “Our family.”

The picture showcased one of their last days in Gravity Falls. In front of the Mystery Shack, Stan wore a huge grin and had his arm slung around Soos, whose eyes sparkled with happy tears as he proudly wore the fez, almost too big for his head. Next to Soos, Wendy covered her mouth, laughing at Dipper, who was clinging onto Stan’s back, grinning as he tried to fake choke-hold him. Next to Stan, Ford beamed proudly while Mabel hung off of his flexed arm, pure joy on her face.

Ford chanced a glance toward the real Stan after a moment, who was staring at it with a fond, wistful smile on his face. “I miss those knuckleheads.”

Leave it to the kids to make Stan start to remember again, he thought, nearly smiling to himself. They’d done it before, and they’d keep doing it, he supposed. “So do I,” he agreed. “Perhaps…we should pay them a visit soon.”

Stan’s smile grew a little as he turned his gaze down to the glass in his hands. “Gotta make sure Soos hasn’t burned down the shack, or Wendy hasn’t made off with our register.” He took a few large gulps, as if he hadn’t drank in days. Somewhat relieved, Ford watched him drain the whole glass, wondering if he’d even realized he was beginning to get memories back again, bit by bit. Once he’d finished, Ford took the glass from him, placing it on the coffee table in front of them. Stan’s brow furrowed. “What, you’re not gonna tell me to put that in the sink?”

“Well, I -”

“You fight me about putting things where they should go every day, Poindexter!” Stan scoffed, getting to his feet to snatch the glass back up again, marching it to the kitchen. Astounded, Ford watched him go. It was true - Stan could be a bit of a slob and left things out all the time, whether it be clothes, glasses, shoes, or fishing lures. The last thing Ford wanted was the Stan o’ War II to end up looking the way his house had looked when Stan had been in charge of it, so they argued often about putting things away. 

Of all things to remember. Ford couldn’t help but chuckle a little to himself.

When Stan emerged from the kitchen again, he crossed his arms. “What?”

“Nothing, Stanley. Nothing.”

For a moment, it seemed like Stan was going to fight it, but then he shrugged and just took his place on the couch next to him again. “If ya say so.” He drummed his fingers on his knee, taking in their small cabin as if everything he looked at gave him a new memory.

While Stan looked around, Ford watched him, noticing the sagging in his shoulders, the slow blinking, the general restless movement. It was plain to see that his brother was exhausted from all the emotion, but the thought of suggesting he go to bed was out of the question. He couldn’t leave him now. He wouldn’t.

“Stanley…do you remember, when we were children, I would read you and Mom stories?”

Stan blinked at the question, slow recognition creeping onto his expression. “Oh, yeah. Mom said she liked hearing you read. She said you did good voices.” His brow furrowed. “Huh. I don’t remember ever hearing the endings.”

For once, the words ‘I don’t remember’ didn’t send a cold shiver down Ford’s spine, because he actually had an answer for that. “You’d usually fall asleep,” he said.

Stan’s cheeks flushed. “You remember that damn armchair! It was comfy!”

“Sure,” he chuckled. “Well, anyway…I was thinking about that earlier, actually. I don’t have any books, but I have plenty of stories from our childhood. Do you want to hear one?”

For a moment, Stan seemed to hesitate, then admitted defeat, leaning back against the couch with a huff and crossed arms. “Guess it beats the same things on TV. And I’m gonna hear the ending this time.”

Smiling, Ford leaned over to turn out the lamp, then leaned back against the couch too. “Very well. Hm…do you remember Crampelter?”

Stan’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, that slimy bastard who bullied us in grade school.”

“Right. He made fun of your demeanor and my polydactyly. For years, all we could do was get through each day. The teachers didn’t help us, and Mom was beside herself. Finally, Dad signed us up for boxing. I was terrible at it.” Stan smirked while he continued. “It was not for me. It took you a while, but eventually you got the hang of it, and we were told to ‘fight back’ if that bully came at us again.”

“Yeah, I remember. Wait, how exactly did we deal with him again?”

Ford grinned a little. “Ah, well…you ‘fought back’, as it were. During recess, you went inside to use the bathroom and he and his goons came over to torment me. They called me names, took my glasses, laughed at the special six-fingered gloves that Mom had knit for me. In my head, I knew I should do what Dad told us to. I knew I should just shove him back so he’d finally leave me alone. But…I was too scared. I couldn’t do it.” He shook his head, remembering how small he’d felt back then. “They were about to break my glasses when I heard your voice.”

Stan tilted his head, seemingly interested to hear what happened next. Perhaps this memory was too long gone.

“You marched right over, demanding that Crampelter return my glasses at once. I remember him laughing, taunting you, asking what you were going to do about it when you landed a swift punch to his groin. He dropped the glasses and I scrambled to pick them up while his friends stood in stunned silence. He seemed to be in too much shock and pain to do much else, other than give you a weak, high-pitched threat before waddling off in another direction. Later, I heard from one of the girls that he stood in the corner of the playground and cried.”

“Hah! Sucker got what he deserved!” Stan laughed, seemingly quite proud of himself.

Ford smiled, shaking his head. “Of course, that stunt suspended you for two days. Mom had a few choice words to say to the principal, but I know that  she and Dad were pretty proud of you for standing up for me.”

Stan’s expression softened as he looked up at his brother, a slew of emotions betrayed behind his tired eyes for a quick second. “Yeah, well. Getting beat up is one thing. Letting them hurt my brother is out of the question.”

“Yes…I think you said something like that to the principal,” Ford responded, feeling oddly touched even all these years later. As Stan yawned, he continued. “Do you remember the day we found the original Stan o’ War?”

Through another yawn, Stan nodded. “I got a lotta splinters.”

Ford continued sharing stories, knowing that eventually, their childhood habits would return - and sure enough, before he could finish his third story about their junior prom, Stan’s head lolled onto his shoulder, sleeping completely soundly. Quietly, Ford trailed off, careful not to move too much, and placed the blanket over them both.

It reminded him of the week after Weirdmaggedon, spending nights together on the couch because Ford couldn’t bring himself to leave him, though it was different all the same. Things wouldn’t ever be perfect for them, he knew, as he gently pulled Stan’s glasses off to place them on the table, but they’d always have one constant now. Each other.

He took off his own glasses and relaxed into the couch, Stan’s warmth and soft breaths easily and quickly lulling him to sleep.

[girlz4jaem]

OUR PATHS | 11. dubs in the chat (wc: 1k) cw: mentions of cheating

JAEMIN arrived at your room within five minutes of your request, carrying a handful of your favorite snacks and the little comfort items he’d used with you the last time a storm had kept you up. as he took off his slippers, settled in, and began prepping a quick late-night meal using the dinky hotel kettle, you couldn’t help but feel your heart melt the tiniest bit. not only had he taken you up on your offer to come by, but he’d also remembered exactly what you needed on nights like this.

you both ate the instant ramen he brought over, the two of you sitting on the edge of your bed. the silence between you felt heavy, like there were words piling up but no clear path forward. yet, the ramen was almost too good for midnight, and in its own way, it helped ease the tension. it was hard to admit, even to yourself, but this was exactly what you needed. his quiet, steady presence and his little gestures of thoughtfulness, even after all this time, still made a difference.

after a few moments, you noticed jaemin watching you as you finished your last bites, a pensive look in his eyes. suddenly, he spoke, his voice almost catching, as if the words were slipping out against his own will. “i’m sorry. and i’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

your eyes widened slightly, not expecting the conversation to start like this—or even tonight at all. you tried to brush it off, hoping to avoid the inevitable heartache that you knew this talk would bring. “is this what you’ve been meaning to say the past few days? you already apologized, no?”

jaemin shook his head softly, his gaze still fixed on you. “y/n, you know that’s different... why do you keep trying to push me away?”

you took a deep breath, focusing on the ground, summoning the strength to finally open this door back up. “you really broke my heart, do you know that?”

his voice was quiet but determined. “let me be the one to put it back together, y/n, please. i really am sorry for everything. i’m sorry i didn’t get to show you how much you meant to me when i had the chance.”

a beat of silence passed, and you took a shaky breath. “do you even want to tell me why you left? because you never did. you left without saying goodbye, and that fucking sucked. i wish you would’ve at least broken up with me in person.”

jaemin’s shoulders tensed as he processed your words, his face contorted with regret. “i know. and, god, i am incredibly sorry. i know this is all still confusing and frustrating for you, but you have to know i never stopped loving you. i still love you. i just... i needed to figure things out about myself.” he paused, as if bracing himself, then continued. “a couple of days before i sent that text, i ran into my ex on a work trip.” he laughed bitterly. “it seems like I’m always running into my exes…”

he continued on,”i don’t know if you remember, because i barely mentioned her when we were together, but we were together for a long time, and she cheated on me. our relationship was messy and toxic, and she left me with a lot of trust issues and self-doubt.”

jaemin’s voice faltered briefly, but he continued. “when i saw her, i found out she’d actually signed up for the work event on purpose, just to give me ‘closure.’ but instead of helping, it brought back everything. it was like i was reliving all of it—how we ended, how messed up that relationship was. it made me realize that i hadn’t really dealt with any of it, and that i’d brought all that baggage into what we had. i needed to work through it, but i thought that would hurt you more than just ending it.”

he looked up at you, his eyes pleading. “how could i love you properly if i hated myself so much?”

your voice was barely a whisper. “but why didn’t you just tell me all of that, jaemin? i didn’t want perfect. i wanted you.”

“i know,” he replied, the weight of his guilt clear in his expression. “i shouldn’t have just left without even attempting to have a conversation. but after what she put me through, i didn’t want to put you through the same thing. i didn’t want you to feel like you had to deal with my issues for me. and, knowing you… you would’ve done just that. you would’ve sacrificed your needs and happiness for me, and i’d been in that exact position before. it always ends badly.”

the room fell silent as his words hung in the air. finally, jaemin continued, his voice softer. “i regretted it as soon as i sent that message, though. i tried to reach out, to fix things, but you blocked me on everything. i even tried to see you in person, but… ryujin told me to stay away.”

you let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “oh god… ryujin… of course.”

he hesitated on his next words, but ultimately pushed through it. “i know it’s not enough to make up for what i did. i know it’s not going to change how much i hurt you. but i need you to know that i really am here, and i’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.”

your eyes locked onto his, the vulnerability in them matching your own. “you hurt me, jaemin. and i don’t know how long it’s going to take for me to get past that.”

he nodded, his gaze dropping. “i get it. and if you want me to back off, i will. but if there’s even a small part of you that wants to give this another try, then… let me prove that i’ve changed.”

after a long moment, you finally whispered, “i’ll forgive you, jaemin.” you lowered your voice even more, “i-i still love you too.” jaemin perked up at that note. “but i need you to really show me that you mean it. prove to me that you love me the way you say you do.”

his eyes softened with a glimmer of hope. “i will. whatever it takes.”

the storm outside continued, but somehow, you felt a little more grounded.

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NOTES | omfg sorry friends i've been so busy but mayhaps this hella long and long awaited chapter is worth it!!!! TAGLIST (open!) | @polarisjisung @tommina @luvv4bby @222low @luluvhs @spideykeyring @dudekiss3r @sunghoonsgfreal @jeonghansshitester @injunnie-lemon @eternallyhyucks @njmluvr @n0hyuck @junviadinho @hyunnies-world @hahaechans @p4tyaraujo @baeseungcheolie @untilthesunrises @lotties-readings @mango-bear @angelicaleex @jungaji @luvvhaechan @lionzyon @y4wnjunz @luvandletter @applejaem @pikibell @keeryverse @botchedbrat @mystverse @t-102 @skzfairies @andyprkmyluv @gomdoleemyson

bold = couldn't tag

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Beside You

A little Gil Galad for you all today! I'm working on the next part Across Time as well!

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

You stand at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, watching as Gil-galad, your husband, collects his armor and prepares to leave. His movements are methodical, almost mechanical, as if this is simply another duty to be done, another battle to face. But for you, this is more than just a matter of duty. This is your husband preparing to ride off to war, to leave you behind with nothing but promises and fears.

"Ereinion, wait," you say, your voice tight, struggling to remain composed. "This is too dangerous. To march on Eregion now—this is madness. You cannot go."

He pauses, just for a moment, his gaze flickering to you before returning to the task at hand. His jaw clenches, a brief flash of irritation in his eyes, but he doesn't answer right away. You know him too well—he has already made up his mind. The decision, for him, is already made.

"I must," he finally says, his voice even, but there is an underlying edge that catches you off guard. "I am the king of the Noldor. My people need me."

"Your people need you here, with me," you reply, your heart pounding in your chest. "We need you here, safe. Your duty is to protect them, but for that you have your armies and generals- not yourself!"

Gil-galad looks at you, and his expression softens briefly, but then he shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the weight of the conversation. "You knew what my duty was when we married," he says quietly. "A king cannot hide behind his walls while his people suffer. A king’s place is with his people. My place is on the front lines."

Your chest tightens, frustration bubbling to the surface. "And what will we do while you're off risking your life? Mend the curtains and sit pining by the window? You cannot be so blinded by your duty that you leave me behind like some- some helpless child! What if something happens to you? At the very least let me accompany you-"

"Enough!" Gil-galad interrupts, his voice a commanding force. He straightens, turning to face you fully, his brow furrowed in something between concern and annoyance. "You will cease this insufferable arguing. I am your husband and your king- my decision is final."

The words strike you like a slap. Your king. There it is again—the reminder that you are his subject, not his equal. Your blood runs cold, and the frustration in your chest flares into full-blown fury.

You feel something break within you. It’s not just the sharpness of his words; it’s the way he stands there, resolute, as if his decision is final, as if your feelings—your fears—mean nothing in the face of his kingly duty.

"So be it," you say, your voice suddenly icy, cold as the depths of the sea. "As you wish, my king."

The words are laced with sarcasm, each one sharp as a dagger. You don’t wait for his reply. Turning on your heel, you storm out of the bedroom, the sound of your boots on the stone floor echoing through the empty halls. Behind you, you can hear him calling your name, but you don’t stop. Not this time.

The door to the hallway slams behind you, and the silence that follows feels like the final nail in the coffin of your argument. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to feel this distant, this small. But you can’t help it. You need space. You need to breathe.

And for the first time in a long time, the weight of being his wife feels unbearable.

You find yourself in the garden, the place where your heart once swelled with joy and warmth, the place where you first fell in love with Ereinion. It feels different now, though, quieter, colder somehow. The flowers are still vibrant, their colors a burst of life in the autumn chill, but their beauty does nothing to ease the ache in your chest.

You sit on the stone bench, the moss cool beneath your fingertips, and you stare at the fountain before you. The sound of the water is soothing, but it does little to drown out the thoughts tumbling through your mind. You were certain Ereinion would come. It’s not like him to leave things unresolved between you. He would speak softly, as he always did, his voice warm and apologetic, the same way he had when the two of you disagreed before. But this time feels different. This time, it feels like the distance between you is growing, like the space between his heart and yours is widening beyond repair.

As you sit there, lost in the quiet peace of the garden, memories flood your mind—the first time you walked here together, the first time he kissed you under the boughs of the great oak tree, the way his eyes had softened with love and admiration. This had been the place where you felt most at home with him, the place where you could see the future together, side by side, your lives intertwined.

But now, there is no future, only the present, and the sting of his departure.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. He will come, you tell yourself. He’s just giving you time to cool down. He will wish to apologize. It’s not like him to hold on to anger. You wait.

Minutes pass. An hour. Still nothing.

The sound of distant horns reaches your ears, and your heart skips a beat. The familiar call of the Noldorin horns—the same horns that have announced Ereinion’s victories, his triumphs, his rule. But this time, the sound is different. It’s sharp, urgent, a signal of departure. Your stomach tightens.

You stand quickly, the cold air biting at your skin, and look toward the city gates. There, in the distance, you see the silhouettes of mounted riders. You can feel your pulse quicken as realization settles in.

He is leaving. Without you. Without a word. Without a single look back.

Your breath catches in your throat as your heart breaks all over again. The garden, once a place of shared joy, now feels like a prison, the walls closing in around you. How could he do this? How could he leave for Eregion, to ride to battle, to risk everything—including his life—without so much as a goodbye?

You walk toward the edge of the garden, your legs trembling with a mixture of rage and disbelief. You want to call out to him, to shout, to demand an answer. You want him to turn around, to stop, to come back. But your voice is caught in your throat, and all you can do is watch as the king of the Noldor, your husband, rides away toward war.

The gates loom before you, the sound of the horns growing louder, more insistent. Every step feels like an eternity, and yet you remain rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. You don’t understand. How could he leave like this? How could he leave you behind so coldly, so abruptly?

The sight of his figure—his back to you, his head held high—only makes the pain in your chest worse. It’s not just the war he’s riding to; it’s the war between you two, the widening gulf of silence between your hearts.

You turn away, unable to watch any longer, unable to stay in the place where love once flourished. But in your heart, a whisper lingers: This is not the end. This cannot be the end.

The silence in your chambers is deafening as you stand before the mirror, your fingers running over the fabric of your gown. The anger you felt earlier has settled into something darker, something more resolute. The words he left you with echo in your mind—his command that you obey him, as his queen, as his subject. You can still feel the sting of it, the way he treated you like one of his soldiers, to be ordered and commanded. But no more.

You won’t sit idly by while the distance between you grows, while he rides off to risk his life in a war that feels so distant from the love you once shared. You won’t be relegated to the sidelines of his life, merely the queen to be left behind.

Your hand tightens into a fist, and a fire burns in your chest, filling you with resolve. I will not let this be the end, you think. I will not let him slip away from me so easily.

You turn swiftly, crossing the room to your advisors’ waiting presence. The doors open with a creak as you step into the hall, their startled faces awaiting you.

“My queen,” one of them stammers, his expression a mix of concern and confusion, “is there something we can do for you?”

You don’t waste time with pleasantries. “I will be accompanying the battalion to Eriador.”

The words drop like stones into the room, and the silence that follows is heavy. Your advisors exchange quick, frantic glances, unsure whether they’ve heard you correctly.

“You wish to… ride with the soldiers?” another asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

“I will ride with the soldiers,” you correct, your voice steady, unwavering. “There is something I must remind him of before he throws that pig headed brain of his into battle.”

The advisors are flustered, caught off guard by your harsh judgement of the king. One steps forward, looking at you with a mix of hesitation and concern. “My queen, surely this is not the time for you to be—”

“I have made my decision,” you cut him off, your tone final. “Prepare my things.”

As they scramble to gather your belongings, you move with purpose, gathering the essentials you need. You feel their eyes on you, but you don’t falter. This is not a decision you’ll regret. No, this is the beginning of something you’ve needed to do for far too long—reclaim your place at Ereinion’s side, no matter how far he tries to distance himself from you.

The day passes quickly as you mount your white mare, the familiar weight of the saddle beneath you grounding you in your decision. The battalion is still some distance ahead, but you ride fast, not caring about the time or the consequences. You need to catch up with him, you need to remind him that you are his queen—and his wife.

The sun dips below the horizon, leaving a cool mist in the air, as you finally make it to the battalion's camp. The soldiers are already setting up for the night, their fires flickering in the growing darkness. The camp is bustling with activity, but it all comes to a halt when your mare’s hooves strike the earth, the sound of your arrival piercing the air.

A soldier, noticing your approach, stops in his tracks. Recognition flashes across his face, and before you can even dismount, he rushes toward you. His steps quicken, and his expression morphs into one of concern.

“My queen,” he says breathlessly, bowing low before you. “What brings you here? Is something wrong? The king…” He hesitates, glancing back toward the far end of the camp where the king’s tent is pitched.

You pause, your gaze steady, and give him a small, composed smile, though it’s edged with a hint of something sharper, more urgent. “The king left something at home,” you say, your voice calm but with an unspoken weight. “And it is of great importance that I deliver it to him.”

The soldier’s brows furrow, and he hesitates for just a moment, but seeing your resolve, he nods. “Of course, my queen. Please, follow me. The king will be glad to see you.”

He leads you through the camp, the sounds of soldiers murmuring and the crackling of the fires echoing around you, but all you can focus on is the path ahead. Your heart beats in your chest, each step bringing you closer to him. The distance between you has already stretched too far, and now, in this moment, you’re closing that gap—you will not let him go without a fight.

As you approach the tent, the soldier opens the flaps for you, allowing you to step inside.

And there, seated at the table in the dim light of a lantern, is Ereinion Gil-galad. His back is to you, and for a moment, you simply watch him, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the firelight. He doesn’t hear you enter at first, but then, as if sensing your presence, he turns, and his eyes lock with yours.

You don’t speak at first, simply meeting his gaze, holding it, as if trying to gauge his reaction, his thoughts.

It’s him. Your husband. The man who has held your heart, the man who you refused to let go, no matter how far he pushed.

And now, you will remind him that he is not alone in this.

The flap of the tent rustles gently as you step inside, your eyes never leaving Ereinion as you close the distance between you. He rises from his seat immediately, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, but it quickly hardens into something unreadable as he meets your gaze. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The crackling of the fire behind him is the only sound, the warmth from it flickering across the shadows of his face.

You stand before him, your heart pounding in your chest, and the words you’ve rehearsed feel like foreign syllables on your tongue. It’s not just the anger, the frustration, that you need to voice—but something deeper, something you’ve been holding inside for far too long.

“You left something at home,” you finally say, your voice steady but laced with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

His brow furrows, confusion crossing his expression. “What do you mean?” He glances around the tent, as though expecting something physical, something tangible. “I have everything I need.”

You take a deep breath, letting the silence stretch between you. It’s not just an object or a letter you’ve come to bring him; it’s something far more vital. You hold his gaze, locking eyes with him, and the truth spills from you.

“Your wife,” you answer simply, your tone laced with quiet intensity.

Ereinion’s expression shifts, a flicker of guilt quickly masked by his usual composure. He’s clearly taken aback by your declaration, but there’s no room for misinterpretation. You’ve made your point.

For a moment, there’s only silence again. Ereinion remains still, as though trying to decide what to say, what to do next. His features soften, but his voice remains firm. “I did not want to drag you into this, my love. I thought it would be safer for you at home, away from the dangers that lie ahead. The fight in Eregion will be long and perilous, I would not place you in the way of the sword.”

You shake your head, the swell of emotions rising inside you, sharper than ever. You step closer to him, closing the space between you until your words are only for him to hear.

“I understand your reasoning,” you say quietly, your voice steady but laced with the rawness of your vulnerability. “I understand that you must join the fight for Eregion. But I was afraid, Ereinion. Afraid that I would lose you, and you wouldn’t even listen to my fears. But it’s not just about fear. It’s about us.”

He watches you, his eyes searching yours, waiting for you to continue.

“You are not alone in this fight,” you continue, your voice more insistent now. “We are bound together, Ereinion. You cannot carry the weight of this war alone, nor should you. I know you are a king, and I respect that. But you are my husband, and that bond is not just some fleeting promise. We share everything, you and I—the joys, the hurts, the fears. We must face all of it together. This war, these dangers… they will not tear us apart. They cannot.”

Your voice cracks with the weight of what you’re about to say, but you push through. “If you fight in Eregion, then I will fight beside you. Not because I want to, but because I must. That is my place, Ereinion. At your side.”

Ereinion is silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving you. His gaze softens as if the realization of your words is beginning to settle deep within him. He steps closer, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting again to meet yours. There is a storm of emotions behind his eyes—guilt, love, regret—and something else, something he had not expected.

“Eregion is close to falling—” he starts, his voice thick with hesitation, as though weighing the consequences of what you’re offering.

“I know the risks,” you interject, your voice gentle but firm. “I know the dangers, and yes, I am afraid. But this is our battle now, Ereinion. You are not the king alone. You are the king, yes, but you are also my husband. I cannot, in good conscience, stay behind when I know I can stand beside you. We are stronger together. We always have been.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, his features caught in something between awe and disbelief. Slowly, he closes the space between you, his hands reaching for yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“I never wanted to pull you into this, to make you part of this war,” he says softly, his voice rough, filled with emotion. “But I see now that you are already part of it, as you always have been. I don’t want to lose you—not to the war, not to anything. But I cannot turn you away.”

You place your hand against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, as if reminding yourself that he is here, with you. Together. 

“I’m not asking for permission, Ereinion,” you whisper, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the heaviness in your heart. “I’m telling you. This is my place. By your side.”

His hands move to your face, cupping your cheeks as he leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours. There is no more distance between you—not in this moment, not in this space. His voice is soft, filled with the weight of all that’s been left unsaid.

“You are my strength,” he murmurs, the words a quiet promise in the stillness of the night. “If you are truly willing to fight, then I will not ask you to stay behind. We will face this war as we have always faced life—together.”

A deep sense of relief washes over you as you close your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his embrace. The battle ahead will be long, and it will test both of you in ways you cannot yet understand. But one thing is certain: you will face it as one. Together, as it was always meant to be.

[musings-from-mars]

So I was thinking about transgender as one does, mentally checking in on my own gender and if I'm happy with y'know, Everything, which has become a sorta self-care routine of mine.

I am amab and have a masc body and presentation. To the uninformed I seem to be a cis guy, and while I have experienced dysphoria in the past, that's not been the case for two(?) years now. I've grown fond of my body and become secure in being he/himmed, but the question crossed my mind tonight—prompted by a certain book I recently started reading—"How would I feel if I suddenly had a feminine body and presentation?" Like, say I woke up one day and suddenly looked like someone the average passerby would see as a woman. How would I feel about that? I closed my eyes, really invited my vivid overactive imagination to play out the scenario, and quickly arrived at my answer: It would be nifty! And in the long run, inconsequential.

Ignoring all of the other social and clerical things I'd have to sort out if this sort of thing actually did happen overnight (which itself would be a fascinating idea for a novel that I have neither the means nor the time to execute presently; it's yours if you want it), I figure that if I suddenly had a fem body and dressed feminine-ish-ly and got she/herred all the time, I would feel very un-different (not indifferent) from how I feel now. I would probably feel fondness for my body, security in how others perceive me, conduct myself in a way that feels actualizing—generally un-different to what I'm already doing now.

This all loops back to the identity label question I've been grappling with for like, 5+ years now. I'm definitely nonbinary and trans and queer, but nothing more specific than that has ever really stuck. Is this kind of un-difference a characteristic of being agender, or pangender, or genderfluid, or what?

Whatever it is, waiting around for my language to catch up with my gender has been way too tedious. Maybe gender un-difference will stick.

[isaidlandowecanbeworldchampion]

Taste / Lost The Breakup Part 5

A/n: Shorter one today but just as sweet- Enjoy!

Previous Part / Next Part

Your eyes fluttered against the morning sunlight through the curtains. You turn and snuggle into the warmth that envelops you, feeling the gentle weight of an arm around your waist. You jolt awake fully. Oscar’s arm tightens around you and pulls you closer to his chest. 

“Five more minutes” He mumbles, clearly  still asleep. His head drops to the crook of your neck where he lazily presses a kiss. 

You run a hand through his hair and try to gently disentangle yourself from his limbs surrounding you. He’s clinging to you like your own personal koala.The movement from you clearly wakes Oscar a bit more. He groans and drops his head back to your neck for a moment. Oscar springs back like he's been burnt. 

“I am so sorry.” He’s teetering on the edge of the bed, half sitting up, arms up between you. 

You giggle. You can't help it. The absolute terror in his face is surprisingly adorable. You cover your mouth, the giggle turning into full blown cackles and before you know it Oscar’s laughing too. His terror forgotten. You pluck up the pillow from where you had been laying your head and throw it at him. It hits him square in the face which makes you both laugh harder. 

You continue like this for a while, the impromptu pillow fight through fits of giggles. Soon you find yourself straddling Oscar’s lap hitting him gently with the pillow. 

“Hey, hey! Time out.” He grabs your wrists and holds them between you, the pillow is forgotten next to you both. 

Oscar stares up at you. For the second time in as many days, you’re mere inches apart. Sharing the same air. Oscar reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. You notice everything about him. The freckles and moles on his cheeks, the way his hair flops perfectly even though he had just woken up. Even the crinkles by his eyes because even if his mouth isn’t, he’s still smiling . You want to just lean in and - 

“We should get up.” Oscar said suddenly, looking anywhere except the woman on his lap. 

You feel like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over you. “Of course” You murmur, extracting yourself from his lap with the grace of a newborn foal. You begin to make the bed, fluffing the pillows and pulling the duvet up neatly. Oscar rolls out of bed and stands looking at you. 

“I’m sorry, I-” He tries to say. 

“It’s fine.” You say, harshly. “Already forgotten, right?” You plaster a saccharine smile across your face. “Good luck in quali today” 

Oscar swipes a hand across his face. “What?But?” Oscar is facing you, the bed feeling more like an ocean. “Why are you mad at me?” 

“I’m not mad.” 

“You are!” Oscar rounds the bed, still a respectful distance away. “Talk to me. Please”  

His head is tilted down toward you, tired eyes filled with worry. 

“Don’t- God! Fuck!” You throw your hands over your face. “ Oscar!” 

“Hey, hey!” He pulls your hands away from your face, looking deep into your eyes. “What’s going on in there?” 

You take a deep breath. His face is a mix of concern and confusion, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted. You launch yourself towards him, your hand wrapping around the back of his neck. Your lips collide and his arms come around your waist, pulling him further into him. He nips lightly at your lower lip and you gasp. Oscar jumps away from you like he’d been burnt. 

“I-What?” He sits on the bed, his head in his hands. 

“I’m sorry, just with what you said the other night about winning and I thought-” You turn away, dejected. Fully prepared to be packed up and sent back to Monaco. 

Oscar jumps up, spinning you around and holding you by the upper arms. “ No, No ! I do. It’s just complicated, right?” He looks down at his feet and asks quietly, “But with what you said to Lando the night, I have to ask. Is this just a way of processing the breakup? Because I’m happy to be here for you but I can’t do that” 

You pull your arm free to run a hand through his hair. “I think I’ve been lying to myself about how I feel about you for a while.” 

Oscar grinned and then looked at his watch and realised the time. 

“Oh shit, I’m late.” He ran to his suitcase. “ Can we talk about this tonight? I’m so sorry, I have to go” 

You smile and sit on the bed. “Of course, Maybe over dinner?” 

“Absolutely!” He rushes toward the door, throwing a hoodie over his team kit. “I”ll text you.” 

The door shuts with  a gentle click.

@amz824@cmleitora@herexpertcollector@piastrams@coriyaps@milkysoop

[rachymarie]

High-masking mfers could practically beg the healthcare department for help for months with tears in our eyes* and they will still say "soz but you're not suicidal so you don't need help but here's a weekly educational group for an illness you don't even have and u are not allowed to talk about anything but the specified illnesses which you don't experience making you feel more alienated and isolated than ever lolz"

[rubiesintherough]

.

[ragnars-tooth]

One of my big compulsions is taking a fuck ton of screenshots Just In Case a piece of information is important in like 4 years and I can't remember it (sometimes the information is an instagram post that I might not remember later and of course needs to be recorded everywhere (I will Not be looking at that again)) so today is my transfer 16000 images off my phone admin day (woo)

Like yeah I never looked at any of them and they were completely irrelevant to my daily life, But what if I need them ✨️ later ✨️ (you'll see that the idea of Later is doing a lot of heavy lifting here) OR what if there's a vital piece of information in the mix somewhere that I'll lose forever if I delete them? So: onto the external hard drive they go

This is one of those cases where. Yeah. Ideally I wouldn't take 16000 screenshots in half a year. And YEAH ideally I'd just delete them and not transfer them somewhere else to never look at again. BUT at least I get a clean slate and I can maybe not mindlessly save everything for 2 seconds. It's like. Small wins? Progress. Yknow.

[randomingoftherandomness]

.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Bad news, got back from the vet and my beautiful baby son is going to have to be put down soon, probably tomorrow or the next day, so send him best of wishes for his next few days~ Luckily, he's actually not in a lot of pain (for now, hopefully he won't be) and is acting pretty normal, so I'm hoping he won't suffer at all and everything will be peaceful for him.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Oh my god. You know it’s getting bad when you start doing things you don’t even want to do to procrastinate on something you really do want to do.

It would be one thing if it were something like a hobby; but the thing I want to do is also extremely necessary to my life.

[steviescrystals]

i am experiencing emotions rn and idk what they are :)

[quietwingsinthesky]

ohhhh u know what i wanna write. need to, even. very important to do it at some point. but i think i really do need to make the doctor have a meltdown. i think that would be very cathartic to put them through.

[robbed-ghost]

“Damian isn’t ooc what are you talking aboutttt he’s only 14 and wants to trust his dad so badlyyyy guyssss don’t get upsettt” have you never read a comic with Damian in it in your life