#how am i supposed to just sleep after this

[maskedbyghost]

where you left me

cw: angst, memory loss, heartbreak

There’s too much white. That’s the first thing you notice when your eyes peel open, your lashes sticky. The ceiling is too clean and too bright, and the air feels heavy and sterile. Everything feels distant, sounds muffled like the room is underwater, and the steady beeping near your head drills into your skull. Your throat burns, raw and dry, probably because it hasn’t tasted water in days.

When you blink slowly, testing the weight of your eyelids, there’s a shape at the edge of the bed. First, you see his boots, black and scuffed, planted like they’ve been there for a long time. You drag your gaze upward, you don't see a mask, just a man with sharp lines, sunken eyes, and tension drawn tight through his shoulders.

“Simon,” you whisper before you know why. The name comes easily. Like it was waiting for you.

His jaw tightens, and thhat small shift says too much. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and too familiar. “You’re awake.”

You nod, barely. The effort makes the room spin. “Where am I?”

“Medical. You were injured on a mission.”

Something twists inside you. A cold ache that doesn’t feel like it came from the wound.

“What mission?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lick your cracked lips. “How bad is it?”

“You hit your head,” he says. “Memory might be patchy. Or gone. Depends.”

You study his face. His voice is all wrong, and worst of all, he won’t meet your eyes. “Do I know you?”

“We’re teammates,” he replies quickly. “That’s it.”

But your chest aches in a way that doesn’t feel new. His voice doesn’t sound like a stranger’s. And your heart doesn’t listen to what your brain is being told. It presses harder against your ribs, like it’s trying to get to him.

He turns before you can ask more and walks out without a glance back.

Recovery is slow and boring, mostly. The days blur together in a way that makes it hard to keep track, and everything in the medical wing feels the same with those bright lights, stiff sheets, and walls that don’t let in any noise or air.

You sleep too much, but you’re always tired. Your body hurts in places you don’t fully understand, and even though the doctors say you’re healing, you don’t feel like you’re getting better. It’s not just your head—it’s something else. Something sitting in your chest that won’t go away.

People visit, but not all at once. Soap shows up the most, always with some stupid story or joke that feels like it’s meant to distract you. He talks fast, laughs too loud, and leans back in the chair like he’s been there a hundred times before. You think he’s trying to keep things light, but there’s something about the way he looks at you when you’re not speaking that makes it obvious he’s worried.

Gaz is more subtle. He doesn’t try to talk your ear off, he just sits nearby and asks if you need anything. You get the sense he knows what not to say. Price calls in once from wherever he is. His smile looks strained on the screen, like he’s trying too hard to stay positive. You appreciate it anyway.

You ask about Simon more than once. You try to keep it casual, but everyone seems to notice. But the answers don’t change. “He’s busy,” Soap says. Or, “He’s not one for hospital visits.” Sometimes they just shrug and move on. It starts to feel like you’re not supposed to ask. Like bringing him up is some kind of mistake.

You don’t remember why it matters so much, but it does. It bothers you, the way they all talk around it. The way no one really looks you in the eye when you mention his name.

“Was I close to him?” you ask Soap during one of his visits.

He shifts in the chair beside your bed, one leg bouncing slightly. “Everyone’s close in the field. Life and death does that.”

But that’s not the question. You can tell he knows it too, by the way he doesn’t meet your eyes.

You start dreaming again after a few weeks, and it’s never the same twice. Most of the time, it’s just flashes—quick, messy bits that don’t always make sense.

Sometimes it’s simple stuff: the feeling of a hand on your back, steady and reassuring, or someone laughing close to your ear. The weight of someone next to you in bed, the way your body relaxed without even thinking about it. The sound of a voice, very deep, quiet, and familiar, but the words never come through clearly. You wake up with the feeling that someone was talking to you, but you can’t remember what they said.

Other nights are worse. Loud and violent. You hear shouting—your own, maybe. Or his. There’s gunfire, smoke, and people running. The pressure of fear sits heavy in your chest even after you’re awake.

Sometimes you feel pain, too, like your body is remembering something your brain can’t. You’ll sit up in bed gasping, sweating, with no real memory of what happened, just this overwhelming feeling that something went wrong.

And no matter what kind of dream it is, it always ends the same way. With that name stuck in your throat. You never say it out loud in the dream, but you wake up with it on your tongue, like you were trying to call out to him even in your sleep.

Simon.

Coming back to base is harder than you thought it would be. It’s like you’re stepping into a life that’s not really yours anymore. There are so many things around you that feel familiar but at the same time completely strange.

You see your name on your ID badge, the photo looking back at you from the plastic, but it feels like it belongs to someone else. Your locker is right where it’s supposed to be, and your fingers know the code by muscle memory, opening it without you even thinking. But even with all those little things working like they should, nothing inside feels like it fits.

You keep waiting for something to click, for a part of you to catch up and say, “Yes, this is home.” But it doesn’t. It feels like you’re trapped in someone else’s skin, like your body belongs to another person.

Simon is everywhere and nowhere. You catch glimpses of him from time to time, just a shadow moving down the hall or slipping through a doorway before you can reach out.

Whenever you actually see him, he’s always in a rush, like he’s trying to get away from something, or from you. He doesn’t stop or talk. His face is cold when you do manage to look at him, and he moves too fast for you to say anything before he disappears again. It’s like he’s avoiding you on purpose, and that hurts more than you expected.

After days of catching only quick glimpses, you finally see him clearly. He’s coming out of the briefing room, no mask on this time, and the sharp line of his jaw is so familiar now that you don’t even have to think twice. It’s him—Simon.

Your voice slips out before you can stop it. “Simon.”

He freezes for a moment. Just a brief pause, like he’s trying to decide what to do next. Then he turns his head just a little, not fully facing you. “Can’t talk. I’m late.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Moving away fast, disappearing down the hallway like he always does—just out of reach, like everything else you thought you knew about him and about this place.

You start writing things down, those small details that come back to you, or things you notice around you. Like how Soap has this way of calling you by a nickname that somehow makes your stomach flip every time you hear it, even though you don’t really understand why. Or how Gaz keeps offering you his coffee every morning, even though you never drink it.

It’s like a quiet gesture, one of the few constants you can hold on to. And sometimes, when it’s late and the hall is almost empty, you catch a shadow lingering just outside your door. It stays there just long enough for you to think it’s real.

Then there’s a photo you find tucked away in your file, something no one ever talked about. It’s you and Simon, both covered in mud, standing close together. Closer than what teammates usually are. His hand is resting on your waist like it belongs there. You’re smiling in that photo, and not the forced kind, but a real smile, easy and natural. You look at it for so long that your eyes start to blur.

Eventually, you tape that photo inside your locker. Every morning, before you go out, you find yourself staring at it a little longer than the day before, like you’re trying to remember what it felt like to be that close to him, and maybe hoping that one day it’ll mean something again.

You finally catch him alone in weapons storage. He’s there restocking gear, moving with the precision that makes it clear his mind is somewhere else, probably somewhere he doesn’t want to be. His hands are steady, but every motion feels tight, like he’s trying hard not to think too much.

You clear your throat and say his name. “Simon.”

He doesn’t turn to look at you. His back stays to you, his shoulders rigid.

You take a step closer. “Can we talk?”

He shakes his head without facing you. “Not now.”

You let out a quiet, frustrated breath. “You always say that.”

He freezes for a moment, his hands pausing in mid-air as if trying to decide whether to keep working or to answer you. Finally, he puts the box down on the table slowly. His whole body stiffens, and you can tell whatever he’s holding back is about to come out.

He still doesn’t look at you, but his voice drops low, rough around the edges. “Because it’s always true.”

You don’t believe him, so you take another step closer. “You’re lying.”

That’s when something in him shifts—just a quick flicker in his eyes, a tightening of his jaw. Maybe it’s anger or regret, or maybe it’s all tangled together. He swallows hard, then finally meets your gaze for a brief second. It’s raw and unguarded, even if he tries to hide it.

His voice softens, but there’s an edge you can’t ignore before he repeats himself. “Not now.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat, the tightness in your chest growing.

He looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to keep himself together. The silence stretches between you, but neither of you says anything more. You can feel the weight of everything left unsaid hanging in the air.

You stand there, waiting for something—an explanation, a sign, anything—but it never comes. Finally, you turn and walk away, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

At first, the memories don’t come all at once. It’s slow, almost like they’re buried under a heavy weight you can’t quite lift. They come in tiny flashes, little pieces that catch your attention for just a second before disappearing again. You don’t even notice it happening at first.

Maybe it’s the smell—something about the way his jacket smells when he’s nearby. It’s faint but familiar, like a mix of smoke and leather, something that sticks in your mind without you meaning to remember it.

Or maybe it’s the sound he makes when he’s thinking, almost like a soft humming sound that you’d swear no one else would notice. You remember the way your hand fits perfectly in his, like it was meant to be there, how heavy it felt when he finally took it.

And then, more comes. Not all at once, but slowly, piece by piece.

You see yourself in a hotel room, nothing fancy, just bare walls and a bed pushed against the corner. You remember how quiet it was, how the air seemed still except for the sound of his breath, warm against your neck, close enough to make your skin prickle.

You remember talking quietly, voices low enough so no one else could hear, words that mattered more than you realized at the time. You can almost feel his lips brushing gently over a scar on your shoulder, the touch light but somehow full of meaning.

You remember the day you told him you’d follow him anywhere—even into hell. It wasn’t just words; you meant it. And when it came down to it, you did.

Then the mission comes back. The chaos. The explosion. You hear him yelling your name, sharp and urgent, just before the grenade lands too close to you. Your body moves before your brain can catch up—throwing yourself to the ground, the impact hitting hard, pain burning through you.

After that, there’s nothing. Just the silence, the dark, the emptiness.

Then this—right here, right now.

The next day, you stand by the garage, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You don’t know how long you’ve been there. The sky changes slowly above you, colors fading from blue to soft pinks, then darkening to evening shades. The air cools against your skin. The hum of the generators is the only sound, filling the quiet around you. You try to steady your breathing, but your heart feels like it’s pounding in your throat.

Time stretches. You watch the empty street, waiting. You don’t know exactly what you’re waiting for, only that you have to be here. Somewhere deep down, you believe he’ll come. Maybe he already knows you’ll be waiting. Maybe he always knows more than you think.

Finally, he appears. He rounds the corner, walking slower than usual, like he’s unsure. Maybe he’s been thinking about this moment for a while. Maybe he’s been dreading it. His eyes don’t meet yours at first; they’re focused on the ground just ahead.

You gather yourself and say the words you’ve kept inside, the ones you’ve said a hundred times in your head but never out loud. “I remember.”

He stops, but he doesn’t say anything, just stands there.

“I remember everything,” you say again, louder this time, trying to push past the silence.

His shoulders rise slightly, like he’s holding his breath, then drop as if the weight of it all is too much. He still won’t meet your eyes. “Then you know why I didn’t tell you,” he finally says, his voice low.

“No,” you reply, stepping closer, your chest open but your throat tight like you’re about to cry. “Tell me. Explain it.”

He looks away again. “I didn’t want you to remember.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

His words hit harder than you expected. The quiet after feels too loud, almost unbearable. You laugh, but it sounds wrong, too forced. “That’s not true.”

This time, his eyes flick up, locking with yours for the briefest moment. There’s no softness there, no warmth. Just cold steel, hard and unbreakable. “You think I’d lie just to protect your feelings?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice shaking. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d do.”

He looks away again. “It was a mistake.”

Your stomach twists into knots. “Say that again.”

Without hesitation, he says it clearly. “Being with you was a mistake.”

It feels like your whole body freezes. Your breath catches, and your hands shake with a mix of anger and hurt. “I risked everything for you.”

His voice is sharp, cutting. “And I never asked you to. You think that means I owe you something?”

“I thought it meant something more. I thought it meant you cared.”

He laughs, low and bitter. “I thought I did, too. But it’s different now. I can’t keep pretending.”

The cold spreads inside you, and you swallow hard. “You don’t mean that.”

He stays quiet.

“Simon,” you say softly, almost pleading.

“I don’t want to do this,” he says, voice softer but still distant.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “But please, don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying,” he says firmly. “I’m doing the only thing I can. I’m letting you go.”

You look at him, willing him to crack, to reach out, to show some part of the man you once knew.

But he doesn’t.

So you turn and walk away.

He simply watches you disappear into the dark.

-------------------------------------------

@nightunite hope you enjoyed babes

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

[faeylayn-blog]

The pressure has been so constant that it doesn't even register most days. Most times it only is noticeable following an order to kill someone who truly does not deserve it. Right at the moment where it’s worth considering if this is someone who really should be killed. But even then it never gets quite that far, even if you might consider it, the pressure reminds me that it’s for the good of the Nation, that I’m the only one who can set things on the path of peace and prosperity again when someone has nudged things out of the rut. And it’s not like the orders have ever been wrong, for all my life I’ve seen enough evidence that everyone I’ve been sent after would have destroyed our entire way of life. I am the blade’s edge on which the Nation is balanced whether all those innocents below know it or not. And all of them either do not or choose not to know. Pretending as though you don’t know when the worst necessities are done makes it easier for them to sleep at night I suppose.

The pressure is heavy today, a constant reminder that it’s so important to just focus on the mission, to trust in the results, the decades of dominance and superiority that the Nation has jealously guarded, the citizens who would suffer if any of these radicals would get their way. Yes this is an official, an archmage of the colegia, but my handlers have not been wrong yet. If this archmage is a traitor to the Nation, then they will be destroyed.

Don’t think about it, I know my duty, just focus. I can glide across even a darkened room without the slightest hint of a sound, I’ve been doing so for years, and years, and years. And I’ll be doing so for years and years more. In the beginning it was about making the quickest cleanest kill. But even trying to use the fewest steps, or shortest time from entry, or whatever arbitrary goal I could create stopped holding my attention quickly. It was when I stumbled over a speech of one of the targets that I found the comedy so entertaining. The Nation should be responsible for providing for all it’s citizens…. The nobles are the true enemy of the Nation…. We all came from somewhere, blaming the poorest among us for all our problems is folly. What a riot. How hilarious to see nobles blaming themselves. Nevermind all the public works and goods the nobles had done for the Nation. Bah. It’s all just lies, still it's one way to keep occupied, and when I found something particularly incriminating to bring back I could have access to all sorts of things.

I knew the Archmage wouldn’t be back in the bedchambers for several minutes, so why not see what he was cooking up? I already saw 4 locations where I could wait in ambush, ranked them by likelihood of discovery, ease of attack, prevention of alarm. Nothing was even likely to get in my way.

His desk was littered with scrolls and tomes, many arcane symbols that swam like minnows through the pages in an arcane script I had no chance of deciphering. A letter was drying and the wax seal was already set out, it would be going somewhere juicy I’m sure. 

To whomever has been sent to kill me,

…. Well shit. Daggers out, check the corners, check the device to detect humans in the room, check for surveillance, check the escape route…. And nothing. No issues, nothing out of place. 

Well now I definitely need to see what he wrote. The pressure pushed harder for a moment, but finding evidence against these losers is what I’ve done and I’m not going to let some letter stop me. Besides, maybe it’s a confession or begging for mercy, these weak willed traitors are prone to make a whole lot of fuss and give up when they face any real hardship.

I’m not at all surprised you made it into my bedchambers, just as you have with so many of my compatriots. Perhaps you’d have thought all opposition would fold when pressed, but considering how you’ve read through so much of every victim's writings, I think you’ve wanted to learn more and there’s something stopping you. And I̶̴̗̗̦͍ͨͭ̉͢͟ m̶̷͔ͪ̽͡i̵͓͙̱͚̎͟g̴̶̛̮̣͙͠h̶̯̰̝̻̿̓͢t̴͕͖͓̀ h̶̯̰̝̻̿̓͢ă̶̸̝ͦ͊̿͋͞v̸̵̝͙͆̈ͤę̷̵̧̖̫̗̆̊ ă̶̸̝ͦ͊̿͋͞ s̩͙͖̋͛͟ȍ̸̢̢̮͚̐̚ḻ̸͈ͧ͑̓̓̀͡û̶͙̽̿͆̈t̴͕͖͓̀i̵͓͙̱͚̎͟ȍ̸̢̢̮͚̐̚n̷̶̯͉̊̽̐ͦ͘

The text spirals into some glyph as I jump backwards but the pulse still worms its way out and slams into my forehead. Fuck, I’m fucking done for now, the fucking letter was a trap.

But as the light recedes, I can still see. I’m… alive? But… the pressure. It’s… it’s gone.

There’s a bluish flash as a teleportation triggers in the room. My weapons are already pointing back as I whip around to face this Archmage. “I… what did you do to me?”

There’s a tight smile on his lips. “I see. Do you still feel I need to die?”

I look down at my daggers, carved with the emblem of the Nation, and I try to will back the focus that the pressure would always bring. The mission. The necessity. Something…

But all that remains is confusion.

I look up. “Tell me more.”

Trained from birth as an assassin, your mind was bound by a powerful control spell. Sent to kill an archmage, they cast Dispel to weaken you—accidentally freeing your mind instead. For the first time, your dagger points wherever you choose.

[traiaadd156]

Oblivious!reader and yan!Damian wayne al ghul.

Interesting point but these are for all my voters💗 enjoy!🎂

Warnings!; violence, blood, reader being a lil dumb, highschool au, damian being manipulative over stupid stuff, reader being drunk and falling onto the floor.

Oblivious!reader, literally damian showing up covered in blood in his robin costume in Halloween. "Wow damian, I never knew you were into this type of thing, cool costume by the way!"

Damian was about to confess, how he will die and kill for you showing up randomally in your room when you were done changing, maybe its best to keep you in the dark about this.. "uhh yeah, I made it myself."

"no way that's so cool!" Well your costume just got diy'd so it wasn't as realistic as his, but you didn't even question the blood since in your head halloween was supposed to be scary and that blood definitely suits him.

Smiling rather dopily hand in hand with him as you both went to the school party, you were gushing about how excited you were to take pictures in the photo booth with him and going to your house for a sleepover.

Damian hid his nature well, and his coldness around your parents which made him welcomed there without them even batting an eye.

Oblivious!reader was just happy she got to spend time with her boyfriend, I could see her accidentally getting drunk because the punch was laced with some alcohol and she had bumped into someone causing her to fall face first into the floor accidentally breaking her nose.

Damian having to leave with you rather early because of it(though he probably didnt enjoy it as much as you because you were stuck to your friends by the hip which he somewhat hates.)

"your so careless, and dont touch your nose your just going to irritate it." He scolded whilst dragging you back home since you kept stumbling.

"hey! Dont blame me— blame the guy who laced the punch you pussay boy!!" You exclaimed making him huff, he did blame the person who did it by breaking his nose too and pushing him in the pool. But he was more annoyed that he was now stuck with this annoying blabbering girlfriend of his. "Seriously you need to find more creative insults than 'pussy boy' beloved."

He huffed, well he is hoping the plans to get your parents out of the house works.

Oblivious!reader staring at him for a good amount of time whilst damian was showering with reader, something they did often when she ever got clingy like this. "Stop staring, pervert." He couldnt help but quip, but her eyes didnt move away. Sure he liked your attention, he liked the way his appearance makes you feel but he also couldnt help wonder why. "Why do you have a new scar?" Huffing in a worried pout, it was a new scar. Much newer than the other faded white ones he had, he already had an answer since he knew you'd ask. "Nothing, just got into a bit of a fight over something dumb." He answered whilst rinsing off the blood staining his skin, relishing on the cool water against hid terse skin. "Did you win?" Soon asking after a good silence in two seconds. "Of course I do, I always get what I want."

"your so cocky sometimes."

"damn right I am."

Oblivious!reader literally just in her house sleeping, mind you it's in the middle of the night and damian as robin breaking into her room while asleep.

He just snuggled up after changing into her clothes. You didnt even think of anything as he just lay beside you, wrapping your arm around him and the best part was you didnt even wake up.

And even tomorrow you just thought he had crashed by and you just forgot about it.

It was a rather small blurb since Im rushing this in the bathroom 😭#functionalwriter.

[seokminfilm]

by the phone — lee seokmin

PAIRING 𐂴 lee seokmin x reader

TAGS & WARNINGS 𐂴 non-idol au, fluff, est relationship, long distance, boyfriend seokmin, clingy reader x clingy seokmin, seokmin calls reader baby, reader uses seokmin's nicknames, suggestive talk, seokmin is lowkey down bad, ugh they're too cute

SUMMARY 𐂴 in which facetime was you and seokmin's couple therapy.

LYR'S SIDENOTES 𐂴 literally felt like this for the past 2 weeks without my laptop 😭 lowkey my laptop was my boyfriend...sigh let me stop. ANYWAYS!! tell a friend to tell a friend: boyfriend seokmin is back in buisness!! ugh i really am so excited to start back to slowly updating...tumblr is my life and now i'm close to getting it back??? anyways i hope you guys enjoy and ily 🤍

NOW PLAYING 𐂴 miss you (bo en)

WORD COUNT 810 𐂴 FOR @kstrucknet

hopping into your empty bed with a happy giggle, you answer the facetime call from the contact titled 'my other half'. seokmin appears after a few seconds of a black screen, background appearing to be some type of private gym as he waves at you cutely.

a sigh of relief escapes your lips as you see your boyfriend thriving apart from you; his dark red hair is messily spread on his head, and his tanned skin seems to softly glow in the warm light of the room. his thick eyebrows are raised slightly at your expression, and his voice is the definition of warm honey as he speaks.

"hey there, baby."

the sentence is enough to send butterflies straight to your stomach, and you bury yourself in the alarmingly cold blankets, pulling seokmin's pillow to your chest if only to try and mimic the feeling of his firm body against yours.

"seokminnie, hi." you say softly, and he's breaking his supposed 'hot guy' facade, big goofy smile riding his face as he giggles. "how's my pretty baby?"

"i'm doing good, holding the fort down here. you know i miss you, though," you say softly, and seokmin leans down, expression smiley as he nods, jutting his bottom lip out as if to pout and match your tone.

"i miss you just as much. maybe even more, if you can believe it." seokmin hums lowly, and you shuffle under the blankets, restless for seokmin's warmth again. it's been almost a month since you've held seokmin's hand: he had gone on a trip with some of his closest friends, and due to your work schedule, you had to stay behind.

you had told yourself that the seperation would be easy, but the first week was the easiest week for you. you had started to miss seokmin terribly, noticing how quiet and stiff the house had become since he had left.

you had to read his texts to remind you to watch the flowers he usually took care of, and the only way you could sleep somewhat soundly was with a few quick sprays of seokmin's soft cologne on his side of the bed.

"just one more week, baby. one more week and i'm flying home." seokmin says with a smile on his face. he's leaning back on a seat of a benchpress, brown eyes sparkling as he stares at your resting face.

"i hope the week goes by super fast. i can't stand to be without you any longer." you frown, and seokmin laughs, voice low and rich as he runs a hand through his dark red hair.

"what do you miss most about me?" his question has a lighthearted tone to it, but you can't help but think of more pressing matters on your mind.

"i miss how warm and firm your body feels against mine when we sleep. and how good you are at kissing me and making me feel good. and how you rub calming circles into my back when we get ready for bed." you can't help but ramble about all the things you've lacked ever since seokmin left. it feels good, being able to get the thoughts off of your chest.

he stares at you with nothing but love and adoration for you in his eyes, chuckling at all the niche things you list. his eyes darken as you go on, silently basking in the fact he drives you crazy.

"you miss all of that? you miss how i taste?" seokmin asks softly, and your cheeks don't fail to heat up as you answer. "i do. really badly."

seokmin lets his head hit the back of the cushioned seat with an intense thud, groaning as he lets his eyes wince shut. he wets his plush lips, as if trying to remember the way you taste.

"describe what you're wearing for me, baby. i wanna imagine you perfectly." the way seokmin says it with his eyes closed and his voice low makes you want to melt into the bedsheets, but you do as he says, smiling as you recall your outift to him.

"i'm wearing your light blue polo shirt right now. it still smells like your cologne." you smile as you watch seokmin's proud grin spread across his face. you loved when your boyfriend got like this, all clingy and dream-prone.

"god, i miss you so bad, baby. want to touch you and kiss you and hug you again," seokmin mumbles, and you nod, eyes becoming heavy as you settle into the blankets.

"stay with me until i fall asleep, seok. please?" your voice is a small squeak now, and seokmin laughs a simple laugh, humming in approval.

"of course, baby, you don't even have to ask. i'll be by the phone until you're sleeping safe and sound."

that alone was enough to almost send you into dreamland.

[galene-gothic]

SYDNEY SWEENEY’S BATH WATER SOAP, OBJECTIFICATION OF WOMEN, ‘MALE LONELINESS EPIDEMIC’ AND FEMINISM

I believe that most of us are aware of the Hollywood actress Sydney Sweeney selling her bath water soap in collaboration with Doctor Squatch and for those of you who weren’t, you are now. I’ve seen several opinions about it with some believing that she set feminism a thousand years back and others believing that feminists fought for the right of women to be able to choose whatever they want to with their life, and body and so she should not be receiving backlash. There has also been a lot of debate about the acceptance and embracement of female sexuality. I’ll start by saying that in a patriarchal society, there is not a lot that we benefits us as women and girls. Just a few examples that I can give from at the top of my head are as follows:

i) Dad bods are more acceptable than mom bods even though it’s women that give birth

ii) In conservative countries if a heterosexual teenage couple happen to kiss in public, it’s the girl that will get blamed

iii) Men are allowed to age while women are not. We have often seen old men working for decades in the film industry. Suppose you were an actress and happened to be the same age as your co-actor, he could work with you when you’re both young but over the years, you’ll stop getting roles while he will continue getting roles and working with younger, and younger women until he stars with your daughter. Not only that, women will get shamed by the same public that used to desire and lust after them when they were younger simply because they’ve grown older and don’t look the same

iv) Famous women are not even allowed to be pregnant because degenerate men on the internet make comments about how she’s ‘let herself go’ even though she’s literally carrying a baby in her womb

v) Dr. Caitlin Bernard was fined three thousand dollars for providing an abortion to a ten year old girl who was raped in the US in 2022

vi) If you get raped, you’re blamed. If you are abused, you’re blamed. If you get pregnant in a consensual relationship, you’re the one who is blamed and shamed for ‘spreading your legs’ even though the guy was just as engaged in the activity

I, in no way am in favour of shrinking yourself to please others and trying to live up to the unrealistic standards that are set up for women, and young girls. It’s just that with the recent rise of acceptance of female sexuality and hook up culture. I feel the need to put my two cents out there for those of you who care to understand and could use my opinions, and values to develop your own and lead a better life. Both purity culture and hook up culture are incredibly damaging to girls, and women because like I said earlier - in this patriarchal society that we live in, there’s not much that we can do as women that benefits us. Even if we think that it is, it likely isn’t. Men have been objectifying women for ages while simultaneously shaming and denying our sexuality. So yes, there needs to be an acceptance and embracement of female sexuality but when we objectify ourselves, and engage in hook up culture, we are feeding into the same structure that we are trying to break because most men want to be able to objectify and sleep with you with nothing else required of them. In fact, many of them are likely to shame you and discuss you in degrading ways with others because they don’t hold any respect for you. They shouldn’t be and it’s their fault but if we want to attain true freedom, and equality, we need to be able to move with more self and social awareness, not by shrinking but instead by refusing to give into a set system that does not benefit us and instead creating new ones that we remain firm in. I’m so glad that the world has progressed enough for us women to be able to have our own money and choose for ourselves but are we really making the most out of it? There has been a rise in topics such as: choosing celibacy, decentering men, being comfortable alone, not getting married due to societal pressure, having high standards in men and leaving after the first moment of disrespect, disregard, and deceit. The reason ‘male loneliness epidemic’ is even a thing is because we as a society haven’t expected as much of men as we should have so they’re unable to keep up, we still aren’t expecting as much of them as we should.

There still are systems and women who let them slack off but many women are awakening to the fact that they deserve better than mediocrity, and are unwilling to settle for men refusing to change, grow and do better so the entire epidemic is something of their own doing because after a certain age, you are responsible for who you are, what you do, and how you live. There is a misconception that in order to be equal to men, we have to be like them, live like them and in order to have our sexuality accepted, we have to experience, and express sexuality in the way that they do even though it is very objectifying and degrading to us. In fact, if it weren’t for the double standards and hypocrisy, it is degrading in general because while men’s behaviour is normalised, they are not known for respecting themselves. So why do we think like this? Why do we act this way? Why do we unconsciously feel the need to stoop down to their level in order to be equal to them? What are we trying to prove? The entire reason that women were suppressed for centuries was because of the power that we held and still do. They were trying to make us forget our truth, our power and unfortunately, they succeeded. Us, as women, are full of love, our souls are rich, we even have the portal of life in between our legs. There’s nothing to prove, there’s only something to accept and embrace, and that is our power. The best way to go about it is by trying to be as selective with our sexual and romantic partners as possible. Obviously, men are deceitful, people in general are and no matter how well we might vet people out, we might still face hurt, betrayal, and disappointment but it’s important to understand that with the standards that men are held to, it likely had everything to do with them and their lack than anything to do with you, your lack, and your worth. This does not go for cases in which you abuse or disrespect your partner in any way. I encourage girls and women to develop, and maintain high standards for themselves and others, and remain firm in their resolve of not settling for men and giving into a system in which they are endlessly blamed, shamed, and used. I’m not an idealistic person who’s completely out of touch with reality.

I understand that these are deep rooted issues and systems that won’t change just because I wrote this post, and a few girls and women got the message, and started living by it but I think that it is important for girls and women to understand their power as who they naturally are, and be aware of the fact that they do not need to act in low and unfulfilling ways in order to experience equality. We are incredibly powerful as we are but we have been made to forget that so we are trying to experience equality and bring about change by stooping down to their level, and doing the things that they do when it is simply a matter of realisation. We would be able to experience more fulfilment if we simply just accepted our power as we are instead of trying to be equal to them because the truth is, we are already powerful while their ways are incredibly unhealthy, and damaging. This is why, women who are married to men have lower life expectancy and men who are married to women have higher life expectancy. This is also why, women who are single are happy, look good and are healthy while men who are single go around complaining about the ‘male loneliness epidemic’, are bitter, and go around trying to fill some void. Many of them are also unable to maintain healthy and fulfilling relationships when they find them due to the lifestyle that they’ve gotten used to living, due to how empty and lacking they have become as individuals. We have got to raise the bar for humanity by starting from ourselves, by rejecting people who are not good for us, by rejecting the lifestyles that are not acceptable to us, by rejecting the system that harms and oppresses us, and simply just embracing our own desires, needs and power as women. We should not try to live their lifestyle because it is pretty clear that they are not fulfilled. All I’m saying is that it’s about time that we lived up to our own standards and waited for men to meet us there, and become equal to us while simultaneously fighting for our rights socially instead of leaning into their destructive and unhealthy ways. I’m not sure how well I got my point across because I’m no writer but it’s okay if you still want to sleep around and objectify yourself but I need you to ask yourself if this lifestyle is truly what you want, and what you find to be deeply fulfilling for you. Do not hate men, we haven’t met all of them and there might be good ones out there. This post is not supposed to be male slander but we all have to agree and come in terms with the fact that they could be doing better as a collective. Let’s not fall victim to choice feminism and instead understand the deeper repercussions of our actions. Thank you so much for reading and I’m sorry if I was unable to express things as efficiently as I wanted to. Much love and take care 🫶🏻💞.

[jollyhunter]

Tap Once For ...

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x fem!Reader [platonic, best friends]

WARNINGS Heavy Angst, Implication of depression (if you squint), Implication of suicidal thoughts, Rainy Night Drive (it’s a mood, I swear), Dean being unusually quiet, Lots of nonverbal communication, Reader and Dean have their own language, Dean finally gets a hug !! , sorta fluff in the end?, Season 7 spoilers, is set at the end of 11x7, No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Bobby's dead. And now Dean's dying his own, silent death. Sam sees it. You see it. But he brushes it off, forces on his mask as usual. But you know a different way to make it crack; One without words.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 3k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE Still thinking of this scene and the many things that were left unsaid. Consider it a sort of 'fix-fic' for this ep. ending. And perhaps overall for Dean's 'I don't talk about my crap'-problem.

If you want to feel the full vibe (recommended 💗): The songs played in the background are Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic (as in the canon scene) and Both Sides Now [1969!] by Joni Mitchell.

Dean smiles to himself.

First time ever since Bobby's death.

Cracks it in silence. In the safety of a rainy night. With no one to witness it. He glances to the right and up to the rearview mirror; Sam's snoring in the passenger seat and you're knocked out in the backseat.

It's just him behind the wheel and Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic playing in the background.

But that's alright. Because the smile that's stretched across his face is hollow.

A forceful attempt at following the advice he'd gotten from Frank.

"Do it with a smile or don't do it at all."

The corners of his lips curl up - twitch - dip down. He presses them into a thin line, before he tries again.

Every muscle's fighting him. Every emotion disagreeing with the new mask he forces onto his face, the one which is supposed to keep him from breaking down. Help him to pretend that it doesn't matter, that it doesn't eat him up inside that no matter how hard he tries, people just keep dying.

John, Ellen, Jo, Pamela - almost Lisa and Ben - then Cas and now… Bobby.

Just another one to add to the pile, right?

Who am I kiddin'…

It's not just the losses. It's the goddamn waiting. The never knowing when the next hit is gonna come. It's just a matter of time until you or Sam join the others. He knows, because it will be his damn fault.

But he can’t just quit and leave you and Sammy alone with all of this crap.

Like hell will I.

So he keeps pushing. Manages a smirk that does nothing to his eyes.

Until the darkness suddenly swallows him.

Drowns him in the void of the night, in what's left in the wake of bright orange beams which ripple through the interior of the car in a flash of a blur.

The sight has your chest tighten.

You're awake now, watching his occasionally lit-up expression through the rearview mirror without him realizing it.

Your heart twists. Face scrunches up. Damn… it's truly painful to witness. After a long beat, you cannot take it anymore.

"Dean?" you speak up softly, voice still raspy from the last hunt gone sideways. Dean's expression drops the same moment. Switches to his stoic one like a soldier summoned.

"Hm? Can't sleep?" he asks, voice gravelly but with that nonchalant tone he always likes to make use of. He lets his wrist rest casually on the steering wheel while his eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror to check on you before they return to the street ahead.

"Mhm..."

You swallow. Suck in a silent breath.

"Are you… okay?"

"Yeah. 'M fine," he answers quickly. His voice firm and exhausted as it cuts through the music like a blunt knife.

You have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

The relevance of those all too familiar three damn words is sapped by now. In fact, it makes you wonder whether he even remembers their original meaning.

Dean's silent for a moment. Then his focus shifts to you as he searches your eyes through the small mirror ahead.

"What about you? How are ya holding up?" he inquires, his voice softened now.

Your eyes lock with his over the reflection. Both trying to read each other's emotions. But it's hard with the stark contours cast across both of your faces from the passing by streaks of light and the occasional shadows that eat your features whenever they roll across you.

You ponder for a moment. Then decide to go with the truth.

"Honestly? Not all too well," you admit quietly. You watch Dean's eyebrows pinch together, eyes fixed to the street – but it's obvious that he's fighting the urge to turn to look at you in concern. Instead he avoids your gaze altogether.

"You've been through the wringer. You should try'n get some shuteye," he mutters, fully aware that you weren't refering to the previous hunt.

You shift in the backseat. Pull your hoodie closer, clinging to the little warmth it provides while the distance between you two is stretching. In the way which always makes you feel like he's slowly walking away from you even though he's physically close enough to touch if you'd wanted to.

You hope he might say something more. Anything.

But he doesn't.

He's drifting further away from you and you can feel it.

Not just now.

But ever since Sam had gone Beautiful Mind and Cas had betrayed you all and died. It's like every time something happens, another piece of him is lost to the void.

And Bobby's death was just the thing to tip him over the edge.

"Can I pick a different song?" you finally pipe up again while sitting up straight, afraid of losing him completely if you were to let the silence stretch any longer.

Dean's attention snaps back to you, eyebrows raised. He hesitates, then nods.

"What d'you wanna listen to?"

"Um," you scoot to the middle of the bench, lean forward, chest hanging over the front's backrest as you fumble for the box still on the leather seat next to Dean. Your fingers rifle through the many bands and mix-tapes. Careful not to wake Sam, who's fast asleep with his long body folded into the corner of the passenger seat.

"This one," you hum satisfied as you pull one out and push it into the recorder.

Not even the first accord of the song fills the inside of the car when Dean's hand shoots out.

"Nope," he cuts in and hits the eject button with a little too much force, "We're not doing that therapy crap."

You startle at his quick reaction. Yet, you're not surprised, as you expected something along the line when you'd pick one of Bobby's tapes. The one Dean had saved from the many boxes which held Bobby's entire library and at least a few personal belongings here and there. Like the flask of his, which Dean's been carrying close to his heart for the past 5 weeks. And been making use of for at least two dozen times a day, sleepless nights not included.

"Whatever you're trying – don't," he adds annoyed.

Propped up on your forearms, next to his shoulder, you blink at his profile. He stubbornly keeps his focus on the road ahead, refusing to look your way. Once again.

You drop back into your seat with a heavy exhale. But stay quiet.

"What? Gonna give me the silent treatment now?"

Another beat of silence, then;

"I miss Bobby," you mutter in response.

Quiet. Honest and sad. Dean instantly picks up on it and his annoyance dissipates at once, frown wrinkles softened.

He lets out a quiet sigh. Then adds. "Yeah. Me too."

Heavy drops begin to rattle the hood. The sky seems to be able to do what he can't; emptying itself shamelessly. The unspoken conversation is taken over by the squeaking sounds of the wipers relentless battle against the flood that's trying to wash you off the streets.

The repetitive tac-tac-tac above you, along Sam's soft zzz-zzzz's has something calming. Soothing even. It drowns out the rest of the world, while the darkness swallows any reminder of civilization that passes by. And for a fleeting moment, the reality of you three is reduced to this.

All of your problems, all of your fears, losses, emotions, every thought unspoken; right here, right now, cooped up inside Dean's only safe haven.

He sighs. You sigh.

You sense the room to open up. It's small, it's fragile and you have no idea how much you can put into it until Dean decides to step outside again.

But you want to try.

"Sometimes… I think it's just all a nightmare, and when I wake up from it, he's still here… y'know? But… the nightmare never stops. And worst is… the world just keeps spinning," you confess in a weak voice. Vulnerable and broken. And for Dean it's just enough to make out amongst the noise of the car's engine and the heavy rain crashing down on its shell.

"Like nothing has changed. Like no one cares," you continue.

Dean doesn't move. He listens. Takes it all in.

Your focus flickers now, eyes glued to the raindrops racing against each other as they slide down the window. Its glass cold and damp under your shoulder which is pushed into the corner of the passenger door, temple dropped against it with a soft thud.

"And it pisses me off," you add in a bitter voice, "Everyone else just gets to live on. It's just not fucking fair."

You angle your head against the window, eyes darted past his shoulder to study his reaction.

Dean's jaw's set. His fingers tightening around the wheel ever so slightly, eyes refusing to lift and meet your pained expression.

For a moment it seems like he's going to open his mouth – but his voice dies down before his lips even part.

Perhaps because he's torn between letting the silence do the talking, or asking more and deal with the fear of not being able to carry the weight of your grief on top of his own right now.

You let out a soft huff at his lack of reaction. Which does not go unnoticed by Dean.

"Life ain't fair, sweetheart," he scoff-chuckles. The sound of it rough and bitter. His entire body is coiled tight. Clearly struggling to hold himself together. "And if you can't deal with that, chances are that you're in the wrong biz."

Your eyebrows furrow at his biting comment. And for a moment you have to bite your tongue to not fire something hurtful back. Instead you swallow the words back down, way too used to this defensive tactic of his by now to fall for it.

Even though Dean's putting up the same facade he's used for the past decades, you know that he cares. Deeply. Can see how his face does that pained scrunch whenever his heart twists. It's brief, but it's definitely there and you never miss it. Even if he won't admit it.

You both let your confession hanging in the air until it's lost in the heavy silence once more.

You turn your head to watch the world race past you. Pull a knee up to your chest to rest your arm on it. Forehead dropped against the damp glass. Resigned.

Out of your view, Dean keeps checking on your curled up form through the rearview mirror.

After a while, he suddenly reaches over and shoves the same cassette back into the player. Hits play without looking. And your head instantly whips up in surprise as he lets Bobby's favourite song, Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, fill the room between you.

Dean's focus is back on the blurry road with the two beams of light that guide him. The slow and familiar guitar tunes make his index finger tap on the wheel along the beats. But you can tell that his mind is still somewhere else entirely.

You sit up straight and decide to try a different approach.

Leaning forward slightly, you place a hand onto his shoulder. Dean startles from the unexpected contact, but doesn't pull away. Instead lets your touch ground him. You rub your hand along his jacket, inching up to the exposed skin of his neck, where the tips of your fingers brush across it. Slow and soothing.

A soft exhale's huffed from his nose. Eyes flutter closed before they return their focus to the road.

His mask slips, just for a split second.

And you cannot help but feel a surge of hope. Hope to finally reach that stubborn ass who happened to become your best friend years ago and one of the most important people in your life.

"You know, I'm a damn mess. So is Sam," you begin in a slow voice and lean in closer to him, lips right behind his ear, "And we don't expect you to be doing well either. In fact, I'd feel better knowing that we can share that pain."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath before you even get to finish your sentence. But you cut him short with his protests stuck on his lips.

"Dean-" your fingers dig into his shoulder as a warning, "I'm serious. Can I ask you to be honest with me for two goddamn seconds?"

He huffs. Rolls his eyes as he dramatically lifts and drops his hands down onto the wheel, muttering something about 'stubborn woman'.

You squeeze his shoulder and he scoffs, acting annoyed as he always does when he's being called out on his bullshit.

"Fine," he finally relents. Your grip softens at his answer. Even if it's obviously reluctant.

You take a moment to sort your mind. Planning your path through a damn minefield of words right now.

Then you soften your voice, as if you were talking to a cornered animal.

"You're not really okay, are you…?" - his muscles tense under your palm like you'd just pushed the muzzle of a gun into his back - "You don't have to answer that," you quickly interrupt his thoughts as you could practically see his throat grow tight, mind struggling to form an answer.

Dean frowns. Eyes glued to the road. Expression still guarded, but there's just the tiniest hint of... disappointment. A silent cry of desperation. Desperate for being exposed. For someone else to drag his emotions into the open.

"Then why'd you even ask'?" He snaps back at you without looking.

Slowly you move the hand on his shoulder, across his collarbone and down to rest your palm on his chest, leaving him the chance to protest. When he doesn't, you bring up your other arm and wrap them both around him from behind. You pull yourself closer until your chest's flush against his backrest, then hook your chin over his right shoulder.

Dean stiffens at first. Stunned by your unexpected action. But then his body begins to relax in the safety of your familiar embrace. You feel his chest heave and fall beneath you as a long exhale leaves his lips.

"Talk to me," you murmur. He blinks in confusion, eyebrows quirked.

Then you tap your finger once.

Right on top of his left chest side. Dean doesn't comment on it, but you can tell by the way his eyes flickered sideways to meet yours for just a moment, that he registered it.

And he instantly understands.

How could he forget the night he had opened up to you for the first time. That night he'd shown up on your porch out of nowhere. Drenched and shaking. Two weeks away from being torn to pieces and dragged downstairs. How you'd held him the entire night. Cradled his tear streaked cheeks. Listened, even though the words had failed him.

The warmth of your palms against his chest calms the storm that's churning in his mind. He's sure you can feel the way his heart is pounding underneath your tender fingertips. Just like that night you'd told him this thing you'd like to try.

You never spoke about it again.

But you didn't need to, because Dean and you had been using it ever since like second nature. Your own little language. Secret. Safe. Innocent in its own way. It harboured no judgment, no walls, no fear of being vulnerable. And most importantly;

No words. Just touch.

"I'm here for you. You know that, right?" you ask softly. His left hand tightens its grip around the steering wheel, refusing to slow down Baby, while his other slips to his knee. There his forefinger arches then…

Tap.

Your chest tightens as you watch the crack in his wall grow bigger.

"You holding up?"

Silence. Then a hesitant;

Tap... Tap.

Somewhere at the corner of your peripheral vision you sense how his green eyes are stinging from unshed tears.

His right hand comes up to cover yours on his chest, searching your connection. No words. Just his fingers intertwining with yours. Heavy hand pressed down onto your tender one. He squeezes it. Holding onto you like you're the only thing to keep him from drowning… or from doing something real stupid.

You swallow, a thought forming in your head which you'd tried to ignore for so long.

"Dean... you ever…" you hesitate. The murmured words next to his ear momentarily die down as they become heavy and cling to your tongue like tar.

Your arms unconsciously tighten around him, like you're scared of his answer, afraid he might disappear the moment the question leaves your mouth. And frankly, you were unsure whether you even wanted to know.

Then his thumb presses into your palm. A silent permission for you to go on. Maybe some voice inside him even begging you to.

You swallow. Start again. This time your voice comes out in a mere hush, just to make sure Sam wouldn't hear it.

"You ever think of… ending it all?"

Dean stiffens. Throat going tight. His grip painful as he clings to you. You feel him lift his finger, slow, shaky…

…

Tap.

Your stomach drops and your heart feels like a dagger just twisted it inside out. The single tap, so soft but clear against the knuckle of your middle finger.

Dean's face scrunches up as he's holding his breath without realizing it. Secretly regretting it all already. You're gonna panic. Judge him. Pity him. Yell at him, scold him even, for just as much as considering the thought.

How could I be so goddamn selfish and worry her like this?

"Damnit," he curses in silence, his free hand dragged down across his mouth briefly before it returned to the steering wheel.

You say his name softly as you feel the guilt building inside him. His jaw clenches. Shoulders shifting under your weight. Dean had picked up on how your breath hitched next to his ear when he confirmed your fears. How your hands tightened under his.

"Sorry," he suddenly chokes out.

The voice so raw, so small, so unbelievably vulnerable as the apology slipped him, that you decide to close the little gap that was left between you.

You lean in, nose nuzzled into his short, dark blond ruffled hair. Forehead gently pressed against the back of his head with your eyes closed. He swallows thickly at the unfamiliar feeling of your warm breath on his neck, lips tingling the short hair there.

"It's okay. I got you," you murmur in a low voice.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise. Stunned at the way your words came out so… calm, understanding, reassuring.

"You don't need to fake a smile for me."

Dean lets out a heavy breath. A bit shaky.

You squeeze your interlocked hands and he subtly leans his head back against yours. The smell of his hair fills your nose as you allow him to rest against you, face nuzzled into the warmth of the nape of his neck, your arms slung over his shoulders and hooked around his rising and falling chest, nothing but the familiar sound of Baby's engines carrying you through the storm, the melodic pitter-patter of the rain on the hood and the voice of Joni Mitchell in your ears.

"Can I stay like this for a bit..?" you ask in a sleepy murmur.

Dean shifts slightly under your weight as he feels you grow heavier against his back. He's not used to this kind of... intimacy. The knowledge that you need no words to understand each other. How the warmth of your body is enveloping him from behind, or your face is burried in his hair like its the safest place. The oddly comfortable feeling of... just being held.

And deep down it scares him how he's absuletly craving for more.

After a moment, his forefinger wiggles free from your grip, his palm still covering yours. While out of your sight, the corner of his lips tug into a hesitant, genuine smile... and he taps once.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE I'm still alive! Sorry for being so inactive lately... Writing is going very slow. And I'm one click away from throwing my laptop out the window (not really, I depend on Thanos. That's his name. 'Cause he loves to make things disappear lmao 🫰) ANYWAY. I've got so so many fics of y'all I want to catch up on. Promise I'll check them asap - so much I want to comment on and reblog but my tbr list just keeps growing?? Anyway, thanks to my lovely moots who keep me motivated to keep writing, I love you 💗 And a special shout to @the-potato-is-lonely for listening to my struggles with this fic 😭🧡

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[bxeckers222]

~woke up the girl who looks just like you, i almost said your name.

summary: after you ended your situationship with paige, you try everything to fill that void.

warnings ‼️ fluff, angst, mentions of smut, cursing

the clock reads 7am.

you barely slept. you don’t know if it’s the alcohol coursing through your veins, or the fact that the girl you took home looks almost identical to paige.

blue eyes.

blonde hair.

except, it’s not her.

you turn over and you’re met with the same face you slept with after a long night out. she’s still sleeping, you didn’t even bother to get her name. she smells like sleep and your vanilla perfume you let her borrow, and she’s wrapped in the blankets wearing your t-shirt.

except it’s not yours.

it’s the one paige gave you the first time you stayed at her house.

blue eyes.

blonde hair.

paige’s shirt.

close enough.

no.

not paige.

you had ended things with paige when you felt like they weren’t going anywhere. the endless nights of hooking up, tangled in the sheets together, acting like a couple, but never quite crossing the line of being a couple.

and god you missed her like hell.

| 7:30 am. |

work in an hour.

you wake up the beautiful, carefree girl laying beside you.

“hey.. it’s early. i gotta work in an hour you should probably head out”

she stirs awake, popping her eyes open with a lazy smile

“good morning to you too” she slurs back, still half asleep.

you manage a half smile back, the turning in your stomach almost feels like guilt. you’re not committed to anyone anymore, there’s nothing to be guilty about. you’re finally doing what paige has probably been doing since you ended things, sleeping with other people. but why does it feel so wrong?

“i can give you money for breakfast if you’re hungry” you say while standing up and rummaging your closet for something to wear to work.

“if you want to stop by the shop we can have breakfast before we open officially”

you and paige used to do that all the time. sit in the quiet corner of the coffee shop, sipping on caramel lattes, and eating those stupid pastries she likes that were always too sweet for you but you ate them anyways.

there it is again, the feeling of guilt creeping its way back into your stomach.

“it’s okay. i’m supposed to visit my parents today, ill probably just head out from here” she says back, standing up out of bed also.

she tossed my shirt, paige’s shirt, aside onto the desk, and slipped back into her crop top and shorts she was wearing the night before. putting her shoes on and walking to the door.

“it was good meeting you” she almost whispered as she opened the door

“it was good meeting you too…” i trailed off, not knowing her name.

“Payton. my names Payton” she said for a final goodbye as she shut the door behind her.

Payton. her names Payton. good to know.

you won’t be seeing her again.

not long after her you leave for work, driving down to the shop and unlocking the door.

those 30 minutes pass from 8:30, and it’s 9 am, the shop being officially open.

the first hour was always boring, nobody comes in, nobody ever did. you took this time to stock, scroll your phone, it used to be your time to talk to paige before she left for practice.

*ding*

the sound of the door opening.

you walk out from the back of the shop to the register.

“good morning, how are y-“

you stop mid sentence.

“good morning, was hoping you’d be here” paige spits back, that same cocky smile on her face.

“you’re the only one that can actually make a drink right”

your face pales almost instantly.

“what are you doing here?” it leaves your mouth before you can stop yourself

“being your first customer of the day it seems like” she says as she walks closer to the counter.

“yeah, you are actually. your usual?” you asked

“yeah. the usual”

her usual being a medium caramel latte with oat milk, because she thought it tasted better that way. hot in the mornings, iced if you guys were there in the evening

you didn’t even need to ask.

you can feel her eyes on you as you work, moving behind the counter to make her drink. the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, yet neither of you say anything.

when you’re done, you go back to the counter and sit it down, scooting it closer to her.

“$6.54 right?” she asked

“you’re good, no need to pay”

“what? i can’t just take it”

“yeah you can, i got it”

she nodded her head and grabbed her drink, taking a sip

“good as always” she says

“thank you”

she nodded and stood there, you knew she wanted to say more. you did too.

“how have you been” she finally speaks up.

“i’ve been alright. working a lot, staying busy.”

“me too me too”

you nod. the awkward silence filling the room

*ding*

the door ringing signaling the entrance of another customer, then another ding signaling paige leaving.

you continue on with your day.

| 4pm |

youre finally off work, and you’re on your way back home, when your phone buzzes.

a message from paige.

paige🤍 - “i know i left abruptly earlier but, can we talk?

you- “sure. where?”

paige🤍- “come over?”

fuck. you shouldn’t, but it’s her.

you- be there in 15

paige🤍- thank you, i promise it’ll be worth your time

you drive to paige’s house, the route you know all too well. the same houses, the same neighborhood kids playing outside, the same dog you and paige fed leftover takeout one night at 3am.

you pull into her driveway and take a deep breathe before stepping out of the car.

1..2..3..4..

counting your footsteps as you reach the door.

a habit paige gave you when you would come to her place so drunk she had to make sure your brain still functioned.

you remembered everything.

you knock, and it took barely a second before she opened the door. she stepped aside, and let you in.

“hey..” she said softly

“hey, paige” you spoke back

“let’s sit” she said, gesturing to the couch

you walk to the couch and she follows, both sitting down but keeping a distance.

as you feel the fabric of the couch underneath you, the memories come back. the sex, the arguments, the movie watching until the sun came up, and then sleeping until the sun went back down. all of it, you remember all of it.

you look over at her, silently gesturing for her to speak up.

“listen” she starts

“i miss you.” she adds before scooting closer

your breath hitches.

“i know. i miss you too”

“i know you ended things because you felt like we weren’t going anywhere, but i was scared. scared i couldn’t give you what you wanted, what you needed.” she says through glossy eyes, you had never seen this much emotion from her.

“all i wanted was you though paige” “i don’t care if it was perfect, or how much we messed up, i just wanted, and still want, only you”

a tear falls down her cheek, and you instinctively wipe it away with your thumb, not even noticing your own falling now.

“i want to be with you. not just hooking up, or saying we’re friends with benefits, but actually be with you.”

she says, her voice cracking while she adds

“i want to take you on real dates, buy you flowers, sit with you in the coffee shop at 9am before i go to practice, all of that. no more hiding”

“i want that more than anything paige” you say while another tear falls.

she wipes your tear and speaks softly

“let me give that to you then”

before you get the chance to speak back she kisses you softly, hand cupping your cheek as she gently brushes away another tear.

for the first time in a while, everything feels right.

[r3vovayn]

No Hurry - CL16 x Reader

Summary: A chance snowstorm strands you and Charles in a quiet alpine cabin after a media event in Switzerland. With no cameras, no pressure, and nowhere to be but here, the childhood friend you thought you'd lost slowly returns to you — one quiet moment at a time.

Warnings: Angst (sort of), Fluff

W/C: 1800+

-------------------------------------------------------

The first time Charles Leclerc saw snow, he swore it was magic.

You were nine, visiting Switzerland with your families, bundled in layers you hated, hurling snowballs until your fingers went numb. He’d built a crooked snowman, stuck his gloves on it like hands, and named it Jean-Jacques, after Pierre's father.

You laughed until your stomach hurt.

Charles looked over at you, grinning through his scarf, and said, “We should do this every year.”

You smiled. “Only if you promise to build a worse snowman each time.”

“Deal.”

You kept that tradition going until life got complicated — racing contracts, media tours, flights, distance. The last snowball fight you had was four years ago. Before Formula 1 swallowed Charles whole. Before you became just another person waving from the crowd.

Until now.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were supposed to be at a sponsor event for only one day — but a freak snowstorm grounded all flights and closed every road in and out of the tiny alpine village. Charles’s manager panicked. His teammate flew home early. Everyone scattered.

Except you and Charles.

The PR rep had muttered something about a chalet still being open and shoved you both into a borrowed SUV with half a tank of gas and snow chains rattling like bones. You barely spoke the entire drive.

Now you’re here.

A cabin halfway up the mountain, two bedrooms, no signal, no schedule. Just quiet. And him.

“I forgot how quiet snow can be,” Charles says, leaning on the windowsill with a mug of tea you made him.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, blanket over your lap. “Peaceful, huh?”

He glances back at you, smiling. “We used to love that. The quiet.”

You nod. “Then you swapped it for engines.”

He doesn’t laugh.

You almost regret saying it.

Almost.

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind,” he says, after a beat.

You shrug. “You didn’t. You just… moved ahead.”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t want to drag you into all of it.”

“And yet, here I am. In a cabin with you in the middle of a snowstorm.”

He smiles. “Fate?”

“Or bad logistics.”

Charles laughs — a real one this time — and you feel something loosen in your chest.

Later that night, you find yourselves sitting across from each other on the floor, a deck of cards between you, a half-eaten bag of marshmallows beside him.

“Loser makes breakfast,” you challenge.

He raises a brow. “And winner gets what?”

You hesitate, then smile. “Their pick of the sleeping arrangements.”

Charles smirks. “Careful. I’m very competitive.”

“So am I.”

The game drags on, each of you cheating shamelessly, laughing so hard you nearly cry. Somewhere between Queen of Spades and a stolen marshmallow, he looks at you like he used to.

Soft. Quiet. Like the world slows down when you’re around.

“I missed this,” he says suddenly.

You stop, mid-shuffle. “What?”

“You.” His voice is gentle. “Not the paddock. Not the cameras. You.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no helmet between you. No race suit. Just Charles — the one who once tied your scarf and called you his best friend. The one who stopped texting back after his second podium. The one who now looks at you like he’s afraid this silence will end too soon.

“You could’ve called,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Why not?”

He leans back, hands behind him. “Because I let the best person in my life fade into background noise. And I was too much of a coward to say I missed you.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Outside, snow brushes gently against the windows.

“Then don’t let it happen again.”

He breathes out a laugh. “That sounds like a second chance.”

“Maybe it is,” you say, voice soft.

He watches you like he’s memorizing every detail. “What if I said I want more than just a second chance at friendship?”

You look down at your hands, then up at him.

“Then I’d say… you should kiss me before breakfast duty starts.”

He doesn’t move right away. When he does, it’s careful — like if he’s too fast, he’ll scare you off.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw. You close your eyes as he leans in, the space between you collapsing like a held breath finally exhaled.

The kiss is sweet. Familiar. Like picking up a conversation you forgot was never finished.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I’m still bad at building snowmen,” he murmurs.

You laugh, breathless. “Lucky for you, I’m still excellent at throwing snowballs.”

The next morning, you wake up on the couch tangled in the same blanket, sunlight pouring through the frosted windows.

Outside, the storm has passed. The roads are open. The real world is waiting.

But Charles doesn’t move.

He just tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers, “Let’s stay a little longer.”

And for once, neither of you is in a hurry to leave.

[bladekisses]

she likes to bite — lottie matthews x reader

this is my first time ever posting a fic, so please be nice !

warnings : smut with a kinky plot (fingering, r!recieving, munch!lottie foreshadowing), blood ! uhhhh i’m pretty sure that’s it

first person pov !

my life had been perfect.

my soccer team was going to fucking nationals! my best friend, lottie. her dad had bought us a private plane to fly there! life was amazing!!!!

and then it all went to shit.

it all went to shit when the plane crashed in the middle of the canadian wilderness, leaving us all stranded.

luckily enough, we found a cabin, atleast we’re not sleeping in the leaves, right?

lottie and i were obviously sleeping beside each other, given the long history of friendship. and that was going great.

i knew about lottie’s schizophrenia, the only person in her life that didn’t judge her for it. because she’s my best fucking friend.

but recently, she was acting totally weird. i mean, the crash got to us all, but she was being odd..like exact definition of odd.

and that all proved itself that one day. i was sleeping in, ignoring anyone that’d tell me to do different. but then i felt a shooting pain in my shoulder.

of course, i jolt up, agitated. i look to my shoulder, a bite mark? “what the fuck..” i whisper under my breath.

i look up to see lottie matthews, staring at me with blood smearing her lips. her eyes are distanced.

“lot?” a fragile whisper, not really knowing what to do.

her gaze snaps up, eyes softening as she notices what she’s done.

“i’m– shit. i’m sorry.” lottie breathes, running a hand through her hair.

i’m at a loss for words. what the fuck?

but i smirk, a witty comment slipping past my lips.

“you’re kinky.” i say, always seeking humor. okay, sue me. how the hell else am i supposed to react?!!

she scoffs.

“you’re unbelievable.” she replies, the guilt still swarming her eyes aswell as her stomach.

“lot–” i start, only to be interrupted.

“let me speak.” she pleads, and i oblige.

“i’m not sure why i did that.” she starts, holding my gaze like i’ll disappear if she doesn’t. “i– it was an urge. a primal one, almost—”

“god, lottie. you sound like a vampire.” i tease, but my face drops slightly at her guilty expression.

“i’m really sorry.”

a beat of silence, hesitation.

“were you seeing something?”

“what?”

“like…you know..”

“not quite. that might’ve triggered it though.”

another moment.

“oh. okay.”

lottie furrows her eyebrows, her lips parted slightly.

““okay?!!”” she echoes, baffled.

“yeah?” i reply, like it’s casual.

“what do you mean, “oh, okay” ??!” she asks, in total disbelief.

“i mean, you can’t control it.” i reply, watching lottie’s furrowed brows with a frown.

i watch.

and watch.

before i lean over, my thumbs attempting to loosen the knot between her eyebrows,

it does.

she smiles gently, enjoying the comfort.

now i’ve got to find away to cover this fucking bite mark.

but that doesn’t matter right now, because lottie’s looking pretty. and i just can’t stop myself.

before she can apologise again, i lean in, closing the distance between our mouths.

she’s shocked at first, not expecting the kiss, but immediately returns it.

we kiss, and kiss. lottie’s tongue slips between my lips, finding her own way in. i whine, climbing onto her lap as my hips start to move against hers.

she pulls back, a subtle smirk on her lips, my blood smeared on both our lips. she holds my hips, guiding them down on her.

i lean my head back, sighing at the sensation. lottie catches one glance at my neck and its game over.

she leans in, noticing the fading love bites there, from guys, or from lottie, after she finds out i was with a guy.

her lips latch onto my skin like a woman starved. kissing, sucking, biting. and it feels so fucking good.

i grasp her hair, almost shoving her into my skin.

she chuckles, “woah there.” she teases, continuing to attack my neck with her mouth. i scoff at her comment, letting out a soft whine as she sucks on my pulse point.

after a couple more minutes, i seriously can’t take it. god, why am i so easy??! i tug lottie’s hair, pulling her to face me, desperation written all over my face, panting softly.

“woah, pretty girl. you alright?” she asks, sounding a little concerned.

i nod, moving my hips in a rougher way, and she seems to get it.

“you needy?”

“mhm.”

“what’s the magic word?”

“…please.”

“course, doll.”

and with that, she shifts so that she’s on top of me, placing me underneath her. her hand softly glides down my waist, slipping my shorts down, brushing my underwear. i moan, and she holds back a groan from the feel of my damp fabric.

“i told you.” i say, holding lottie’s gaze.

“that you did.” she responds, slowly slipping a finger into me, a grin spreading on her lips as my walls let her in, a loud moan escaping.

she starts off gentle, but it’s lottie, and i’m me. so it doesn’t stay that way for long.

lottie slips a hand up my shirt, and i immediately rip it off, leaving me in just my bra. her eyes widen at the sight and the desperation.

she slips in another finger for that, almost as a praise. and i mewl, all breathless.

“you like that?” she asks, and her tone of voice makes me moan. the slight teasing makes me wanna release already, but i know better than that.

“…yeah.” i moan, lottie’s free hand cupping my bra, and i groan. jesus christ.

lottie just smirks, continuously working me over with her fingers. she’s enjoying this.

“don’t be cocky.” i murmur, a low, guttural moan escaping as she curls her fingers inside of me.

“how can i not be, with such a pretty girl beneath me?” she says, fastening her pace.

she’s gonna fucking kill me one day.

i moan, and i feel myself getting close already. so does she, because she speeds up, burrowing her face in my neck, pressing soft kisses there.

“let go, beautiful.” she whispers softly, all sweet and caring.

fuuuuuuuck her. seriously.

and to make matters worse, or better, according to lottie, she starts to kiss my neck, down my chest and shoulders, in that passionate, desperate way she always does. leaving love bites and bite marks all over.

well, would ya look at that?

a genius way to hide the bite.

holy shit.

i moan, my walls clenching around lottie’s digits, she immediately gets the memo, because she works faster, whispering soft encouragements after every kiss, or bite, or whatever.

i moan her name, like a mantra, because holy shit that felt so good.

she keeps her fingers in me, until i’m fully done.

i’m breathless, totally breathless.

she leans up, pressing soft kisses all over my face, and then finally to my lips.

“you’re so good.” she tells me, and i flush at the praise.

she leans down, i thought it was to cover me up, but i feel her hands on my thighs, face not too far from my core, she looks up, keeping eye contact.

she smirks.

“round two?”

[graceful-not]

No actually all of you need to sit your asses down bc I just watched the legacy shorts and. HOW HAVE I NEVER HEARD ANYONE SAY ANYTHING ABT THEM OTHER THAN GOLDEN HOUR AND SWEATING TO THE GOLDIES???? HOW HAS NO INE SAID A SINGLE THING ABOUT THE GOLDEN LEGEND SHORT?? OR THE ANIMATION STYLE OF GOLD RUSH???? I could have gone my whole life without watching those do you understand that. Why are we, as a fandom, not taking about these more, or like, AT ALL. we should be insane about this. We should be insane about this, right??? RIGHT??????

[reflectingiridescent]

Do not even even EVEN EVEN EVEN get me started on Sophie "there's fake and then there's fake" Devereaux, grifter extraordinaire with a phd in compartmentalization, who spent half her life in an identity crisis, being introduced as someone's "one true thing".

I am FERAL. I am BREATHLESS. I am simultaneously SCREAMING AT THE SKY.

WHO TF DO I NEED TO CONVINCE TO GIVE ME A SEASON 4? OH MY GOD???

[radioiaci]

"My tongue is good for a fair many things," Alastor retorts with a small snort and a gentle roll of his eyes. Though for some reason, the touch to his face is a bit disarming, arriving with a softness that he does not expect after Irene seems to have used him for pleasure. (Not that he hadn't offered, but...)

Hm.

No conclusions to be made from it just then, a bit too preoccupied with how she seems to direct him to the bathroom and then request that he stay?

That too is surprising.

Alastor is silent for a few moments as he considers, not pulling away from her, at the very least, before he seems to settle further on the idea. He can stay.

He just cannot sleep.

"If that's what you want," he replies easily, not wanting it to seem as though he's had to think too hard about it before coming to a decision. "I will have to come up with an excuse as to why I am not at the hotel first thing in the morning, but I suppose it's not the most difficult task for me."

He leans then, reaching to catch her chin in hand to tilt it upwards to face him, leaning to press a small kiss to the corner of her mouth before pulling away to leave the sanctity of the bed and get up to his feet.

"I will be back then."

And with a small silent appreciative glance that she seemed to at least permit him privacy in the bath, Alastor disappeared into the bathroom to soak for a time. It was likely that he'd return smelling like her - or whatever scents she'd elected to place in there anyway.

“Well… there was question… if your tongue was good for anything but gab.” Irene retorts, pants slowing as she lathes her tongue over her arm to seal the wound before she reaches down to tug her shift back into place. She continues to lay there for a moment, catching her breath, though she pulls herself up when she hears his complaint.

She reaches to touch his cheek, running her thumb over it before it moves up to his head as she examines him. She seemed worried, brows furrowed before she lets out a soft relieved exhale when it appeared to only be the blood she had dribbled on him.

“I’m sorry. I…er…don’t normally make messes like that. I just didn’t want to hurt you.” She says and lowers her hand to point towards a door opposite of the shared bedroom door. “There’s a bathroom in there. My staff insisted upon modern plumbing so please, help yourself. There should be soaps by the tub and towels on the wall.”

Her attention returns to him, hand fiddling with the collar of his open shirt before she slips a hand in to run it down his chest. “Once you’re done…will you stay the night? It’s awfully cruel to make a girl go back to a cold and empty bed after making her see heaven.”

She flutters her lashes. “Please?”

[parasocialqueen]

THE PARALLELS WHEN NEIL IS IN THE NEST WITH TSC ARE SICKENING. Wdymmmmm “jean was forbidden to use French but he’s whispered it to Neil when Riko wasn’t close enough to hear.”

I AM GOING TO LOSE MY FUCING MIND ISTG

[gottagobackintime]

Me during episode 12 of The Pitt

[somegrumpynerd]

Quick doodle just for fun

[zombiefishgirl]

Lucanis Dellamorte was not a man accustomed to being summoned. Well, except by Caterina. Other than that though his position and reputation granted him a great deal of freedom. He had just received delivery of Mara's dress for the ballet that night. Fabric almost the same colour as her skin, flowers and tiny sparkles would make it look like she was almost naked. He had placed the dress in her slightly messy room and found himself inhaling her pillow that still held the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair.

He was torn between chastising himself as pathetic and salivating at the discarded smalls tangled in her sheets when there was a knock on the door. A letter summoning him to Teia's office at once. Bemused, he set out.

---

Teia sat at her desk trying to think of more work to distract Mara. Perhaps an assignment out of the country for a while? Rivain perhaps? She had just started to jot down a note to Stella when her door opened and Lucanis sauntered in.

"Is there a reason you could not knock?"

"Is there a reason you summoned me?"

"I did no such thing!"

"I did." Tav spoke, bulk filled the door as he closed them in. "It's about Mara."

"Is she alright? Did someone attack her?"

"Is she injured? We should get healers, the best..."

They spoke over each other until he held up a hand. "She is alright no thanks to either of you."

"Us? What did we do?"

"Teia you have been keeping her working from dawn to dusk and then you, her husband who is supposed to take care of her. You keep her out until sunrise charming all of the very important people who seem to matter more than her. Did either of you consider that she is a person? That she needs to sleep? To eat?" They looked abashed but Tav was on a roll, "Teia you know her as well as I do, you know that she would never say if she was taking on too much. She would hate to let you down. And you, if you are going to make this sham marriage bearable for her, you should know that she needs plenty of space and quiet after talking to people. I mean dear Maker did neither of you notice how exhausted she is? She almost walked into a canal! And she had lost what little weight she has, so skinny that her bloods have stopped."

"She told you that?" Lucanis wondered at the implied intimacy.

"Qunari, I can smell these things. Look you are both very important and dangerous people who can kill me without a thought but Mara is important to me too and so long as I am alive I will stand up to anyone to protect her."

---

In her little workroom Mara struggled to keep her eyes open as she kept the mixture from boiling over and ruining four hours of painstakingly precise work. Once it was done she should be able to close her eyes for 15 minutes before heading home to change. Just a little longer...

The door opened and Teia told her that the potions was no longer needed. Also the lessons would be delayed and she found someone else for those contracts she mentioned.

"Take the rest of the week off Duckling."

Five minutes later Lucanis walked in just as she was bottling the (no longer needed) potion that she had spent four hours and half of her rarest ingredients on.

"Ah Mara, just to say a slight change of plans. I shall attend the ballet with a business associate tonight and will be taking my weaponsmith to the banquet tomorrow. Perhaps you can get some sleep, you are looking unwell."

---

Her schedule suddenly wide open and Mara did not feel relief as she walked home alone. Lucanis had left straight for the ballet and Mara was useless with a gondola and too tired to navigate the Crow Road without breaking her neck. All she could think of was what she had done wrong? It must have been bad for both Teia and Lucanis to decide she was not needed. She wished she knew what it was so that she could apologise. Half asleep as she collapsed fully dressed in bed.

She loved them, she would hate for them to be angry with her.

It is not that Teia begrudges her protege the chance to realise the love blossoming between her and Lucanis. Teia liked and cared for both of them but she remembered the stories of the Dellamortes being massacred. Viago always said that Teia was too naive when it came to her fellow Crows and how much of a family they were.

Compared to Mara though she was a hard nosed cynic.

She simply could not stand the thought of her Duckling being hurt. In either sense.

And so Teia used her position as Talon to keep Mara as busy as possible and away from Lucanis and his big sad eyes.