#sweet bokeh

[chasingrainbowsforever]

Blueberry Ice Cream

[moaan]

Profile by Katsuaki Shoda

[tomirovira]

[lonepower]

[kristo-flowers]

English dogwood

[jaygaeze]

[bunabi]

The Starry 🌟 Firey 🔥 Bubbly 🫧 Effect Pack (CSP) is done!

This one took a lot outta me, so I’ll be making this post short and sweet: Eleven brushes for Clip Studio only! Free with instructions included! You can support me monthly if you enjoy these! Here are the past brush 2023 drops!

Texture & Clothing Decorations Pack (Clip Studio) | Tails Tails Tails Support+ Pack (Clip Studio) | Tails Tails Tails Pack (Clip Studio) | Galactic Brushes (for Clip Studio!) | Super Bokeh Brushes (Clip Studio) | Rainbow Burst Brushes | Shiny Sparkly Jewelry Pack | Shiny Sparkly Jewelry Pack Plus (+Only) | Grunge Brushes (Krita) | Valentines Lace | Twiggy Patterns & Brushes | Grunge Brushes (Support+ Only) | The Pack With Cracks | 2022 Brushes & Patterns Master List | And the freebies tag!

[comatosebunny09]

misunderstanding | sylus

summary: it was all because the shopkeep got a little handsy. a little too comfortable, purring his name like that. he shrugged her off; did you not see that part? genre(s): romance, angst warning(s): alcohol, drunk reader, self-esteem issues, insecurities, language, short and sweet notes: inspired by that one scene from fifty shades of grey.

Imagine calling Sylus while you’re drunk off your ass.

When you’ve thrown back one too many long islands, and while your friends are all inside, shacked up with their significant others and happy. You toddle outside for some fresh air and a break from your own head.

His voice breaks through the static, all heavy with sleep. But he answers so quickly because you’ve been giving him the cold shoulder. Been brief with your texts, ignoring his phone calls, and going out of your way to avoid running into him. He’s given you your space—minus Mephisto perched outside your window each night, watching you like a hawk.

“Hello?” Sylus husks, bed sheets rustling in the background as he maneuvers himself to sit up.

Somewhere far off, you feel bad for waking him. He already sleeps like shit. But you have liquid encouragement on your side, so you shove that guilt down, down, down in favor of poking the proverbial bear.

Your words are all blurred together, and you can barely keep your eyes open as you prop yourself up on a safety bollard, holding your phone to your ear with two hands.

“Why don’t you like me?”

“I—What?”

You swallow thick. Feel the world swirling and your body teetering, but you press on.

“Why don’t you like me, Sylus? Am I not your type? Is it ‘cause I’m not rich? Not skinny?”

He laughs, all incredulous on the other end. You imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose in the stillness of his bedroom, disbelieving of the shit spilling from your mouth. And so early in the evening, too.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Me. I mean, am I annoying?  I kinda am. I talk a lot. But that lady—the one from before. That shopkeeper chick. She was really hot. Like, supermodel hot.”

Your name comes out in an exasperated sigh. “That’s what this is about?”

You confirmed his suspicions. Why you’ve been playing keep-away. Ever since you accompanied him a few weeks back to gather some intel from a verified source, you’ve been acting distant. All because the shopkeep got a little handsy. A little too comfortable, purring his name like that. He shrugged her off. Wordlessly put her in her place. Did you not see that part?

Sylus doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

“No, no, wait. Lemme finish. She seemed more your type. Like the kinda chick you’d be into, ya know? You two’d be like Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

He groans, and this time, you picture him hanging his head low. His long fingers splayed over his face in exhaustion.

“Where are you? Have you been drinking?”

“Mind your business,” you say around a hiccup.

And you’re catching yourself on the bollard, giggling stupidly at how pathetic you must look. Trying to catch your footing like a baby fawn.

“Only had one or two. Maybe three or six. I’m a big girl. A big, un-pretty girl, according to Mr. Sylus.”

A car honks in the distance. You barely stir from it, eyes shuttering as your head falls onto your arm roosted on the bollard.

“Where are you?” Sylus prods again.

There’s a little more urgency this time. A little more concern lurking beneath the tenor of his voice, and the sleep’s almost completely vanished from it.

“Out.”

You burn hot. Sway as the alcohol thickens in your veins. Something of a smile twitches your lips. For a second, you’re convinced he actually gives a shit about you.

“Sweetie, please. I don’t have the patience to entertain your mind games today. And stop putting words into my mouth. Not once have I ever referred to you as ‘un-pretty.’”

You snort. Stumble away from the bollard to lean against a brick wall. It’s cold and raw against your bare back. The world’s a pretty bokeh of light around. Maybe you did have a little too much to drink.

His voice drops an octave. Skates between sincerity and something dulcet; doting.

“You’re anything but. You’re gorgeous. Breathtaking. Incredibly resourceful and infuriatingly kind. You’re tough. And you don’t talk too much. In fact, I wish you would spend more time talking about yourself.”

Your lips crook with a smile. Your eyes begin to water. Your cheeks are warmer now, and you’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the words spuming so effortlessly from the other end of your phone.

You hear fabric rustling. Hear his mattress creaking and things being jostled about in the background. Drawers. Clothes. Shoes clicking against marbled tiles.

“Tell me where you are,” he asserts. “I’m coming to get you.”

“No, no, no!”

You wave your hand dismissively like he can see. You feel bad enough having dragged him down with you. Having dredged up your insecurities and projected them onto him like that. No reason to make him leave the sanctity of his bed to entertain your foolishness.

“It’s cool, Syl. I’ll catch a cab.”

“I’m not asking,” he clips in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

You swallow, suddenly feeling cold sobriety creep in. Metal jangles through the static. Keys. Car keys. A door shuts, followed by an engine stuttering and drawing a breath in. He taps a few buttons on his console. Releases a sigh.

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are. Don’t go running off with any strangers, alright, sweetheart?”

Something warm spills into your tummy. You slide down the wall onto your ass, holding your head in your hands with your phone propped to your ear using your shoulder.

“Sylus, really. You don’t have to do that. I’ll be good—”

“I want to,” he insists. Already peeling out of his driveway and zooming through the streets of the N109 Zone. “Stay on the line. Don’t hang up. I’ll be there soon. Promise.”

You sigh at your own stupidity. At your own pitifulness. Making him come play knight in shining armor like that. All because you couldn’t hold your liquor. Your tongue. Though, you can’t stifle the tiny ping of hope resounding in your head.

“Okay. I’ll wait. But can we get ice cream when you get here?”

He chuckles, the sound of it brassy yet comforting through the drunken slurry of your brain.

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

masterlist

[fleeting-moment-now]

Doing some magic with my Lensbaby Sweet 50 + x4 macro

[chasingrainbowsforever]

~ A Touch of Pink ~

[alexrentsch]

Berlin Lichtenberg

Zoe the cat

Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM@Canon EOS 5D Mark II

[poppytuft]

trying not to talk too much abt the bear s2 but im Really fuckin frustrated that even with everyone demanding that they’re sooo media literate and sooo smart that no one has talked about claire and the way she sparks audience discomfort. like, she feels out of place within the show because CARMY cannot accept that he is getting this good thing—she feels out of place in HIS life. she’s actually crafted to be the ideal girlfriend, with glowy bokeh lighting in a grocery store and beauty shot close ups and a sweet instrumental leitmotif to show to you, an audience member, that she’s too good to be true in carmys eyes. if you’re an audience member, she raises alarm bells in YOUR head because she raises alarm bells in HIS. he literally tells us that—that’s the crux of his final monologue, that he doesn’t believe he can have the life of food and wines best chef and a life of love and human connection. he doesn’t believe he’s deserving of good things because his family has always been so fucked, because nothing he’s ever tried to hold together has held together—except for his cooking. it’s done this way on purpose, to make you feel that anxiety that he feels around this relationship, and to make you question why you feel it too

[bunmurdock]

heyy friend !! just wanted to ask for the sake of all the fan girls out there: what is ur fave spicy thought of the day😚

HAI!

i'll be so honest. dark!matt murdock red suit sex >.>

i've had this silly thing in my drafts for ages and at this point it might never get published bc it's not to my full liking, so i figure i'll jus do it here with bits and pieces i like :I

cw: dark!matt murdock, orgasm denial, overstimulation

he had come back early tonight, hadn't he? he’d stood there at the window, chest heaving, intensity high, silhouette large and uninviting. you’d gone to greet him, dressed in only his t-shirt which fell down to your thighs. rubbing at your sleepy eyes, you’d reached for his mask when he grabbed your wrist mid-air. he’d all but tossed you on the bed, and pulled you into his lap, teeth scraping at your neck and stubble pushing like tiny pins against pulse point. your shirt was pulled over your head, and he swirled your nipples with rough fingers, pinching a little too hard for comfort. there was the sound of a zipper, and then the blunt head of his cock was pushing past your entrance, dry. “relax.” you jerk, fingers gripping the sheets.  “gonna go in slow, ‘kay?” he says, lifting his hips, his rough fingers on your hips holding you in place. but it was anything but slow. “—’s too big, d,” you whimper, burying your face into his cowl.  he’d hissed at the friction, before working an arm under each of your spread thighs to lift your body up and down his cock. you’d cried, your legs quivered in his hold, while he thrust up so fully into you the neon lights outside blurred bokeh in your field of vision. you came quickly at the sheer speed and force of it all, and then he had you back to his chest, still pounding into you, and it was around the time he’d worked a bicep around your neck that the memory faded to black.

later, on your back:

“please,” your voice is a choked plea, fingers twitching toward him, craving more contact. he leans forward just enough to dangle the possibility, bringing his face close enough that you can see the sharp angles of his mask, the glint of the horns above his brow. with a smirk tugging at his lips, he lets you think you’ll get more. your fingers brush the hard edge of his chest, desperate for some anchor in the torrent of sensation. but just as you start to grind up harder, chasing that sweet release, he pulls his leg back, leaving you empty.

later, grinding on his ribbed thigh:

he presses your soaked core firmly against the hard ridges of his suit, the cool tactical material unyielding and rough in all the right places. your hands fly to his helmet, hugging his head and gripping the horns tightly for balance. you start to grind against him instinctively, the scent of leather and sweat filling your lungs. “faster.” your legs shake uncontrollably. his arms around your waist tighten, locking you against him as he rocks you back and forth, dragging you closer to the edge with every measured movement. “faster.” “you're gonna go until you break.”

masterlist | share your mm fantasies

[kristo-flowers]

Sweet alyssum

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 2

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right— so who took the photo? 

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

prev | next

Ghost's hands are stained black with soil. Dirt caked under his nails. He breathes in the debris until it's part of him, burrowed into the pit of his lungs, his eyes, his stomach. He's not alone— 

(the corpse clings onto him on bad days) 

—a terrible comfort. 

His fingertips scrabble against wood. Darkness presses against him from all sides. The promise of lithification looms—unstoppable force, immovable object. Rock forever chained to its place in the natural order of things. It'd be so easy to give up, to accept he's always been nothing but a stain against the dirt— 

“You set me straight, yeah?” 

Simon grits his teeth. The jawbone comes loose in violent, painful tugs—forearm skin burns against the rough grain cage trapping him underground. Decaying flesh squelches between his fingers, muscle and sinew snapping, bending, come on— 

A way out. Teeth dig into his flesh when he grips it hard and fights— 

(c'mon, his dad's voice goads. show me you're a man, boy) 

—the desire to give in. He'll make his own way through. Dogteeth biting so deep he can't be dislodged, holding on even when he's the one bleeding. Never knew when to let go and he refuses to learn, because Ghost— 

Simon— 

Ghost— 

still has something to do. To get back to. 

When he bursts through the surface the low evening light is blinding. The sun sets over deserted sloping plains, catching a dark figure in its glare— 

A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers her Nikon. No, not hers—borrowed. 

Simon looks. He and— 

The clock on his nightstand reads three in the A.M. Ghost is exhausted. 

Enough. 

He gets up, throws on a shirt, and opens his closet. Shoved deep in the back is a box— 

(a coffin) 

—with the remnants of another life. Tommy's lighter. Simon's first knife. Collectible football cards, scuffed at the edges. And— 

Sun-faded photographs with dates scribbled on the backs in slanted cursive. 

Ghost rarely looks at them. Makes his head hurt, his chest constrict so tight he can't breathe. He won't ever toss them; can bear the pain just enough to know that they exist, here, safe under lock and key. 

He takes the stack of photos and lets it rip him open. 

Tommy and Beth's wedding. Tommy dressed in handsome black, perpetual stupid grin on his face. Beth, beautiful and smiling, stomach showing the first signs of swelling if you know to look for it. 

Joseph, newborn, swaddled in blankets. A young Simon without tattoos holds him, looking stiff and unsure and utterly reverent. 

Ghost swallows. Skips ahead—birthdays, mum's funeral, Christmas— 

There. 

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right—so who took the photo? 

You two look sweet together. 

Ghost flips through the next few photographs slowly, and then his heart stops. Breath slows. Pupils dilate, fixated;  

“He's so little, isn't he?” 

You sit down next to Simon on the sofa, smiling at Joseph. 

“Yeah,” Simon says, shifting to make room for you. Joseph looks up at you with his big round eyes—then swats Simon on his chin again. 

You smother your laugh behind your hand. “Oh, sweetie, no. Your mumma said no hitting. Here—do you want your stuffie?” 

Joseph garbles when you hold it up to him and latches onto his little plush rabbit immediately.  

Click—flash. 

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers the Nikon.  

Fuzzy edges sharpen, filling in the corroded pathways. Bokeh, reversed—the photo in Ghost's hands is grainy and dim, but the memory breaking through the surface is clear.  

Ghost quickly—greedily—flips through more photos, finds a pattern; a red thread. With a reference you're suddenly everywhere. Maid of honour, flowers in your hair. A party, can't remember what for, but you're dancing, smiling, wearing a short dress. Ghost's eyes linger on your legs a moment longer before shuffling to the next print. 

Joseph's first birthday—you baked the cake yourself, Ghost suddenly thinks. A missing memory clicking in place, tethered by context clues. 

...He would've turned twelve in a few months. Just started secondary school, life full of possibility. Pathways that were never traversed. These snapshots of happiness are just that; are a blip on the radar, there and gone again. 

Ghost grits through the pain and continues until he reaches the last snapshot in the stack. 

It's another wedding photo; of him, this time. Or rather, of the back of his head. Best man. He's holding a glass, and so are you. Your face is tilted up to him, open and sweet. Smiling. 

“Okay, I know what people say about the maid of honour and the best man, and I just wanted to tell you that you have my blessing.” 

Simon's brows rise on his forehead. The reception is in full swing; there's drinks and cake and finger food. People are dancing to a playlist blasting from speakers in the corners—Simon burned the CD himself per Tommy's request. 

Beth has joined him on the sides to watch their guests get shitfaced on cheap liqueur. Tommy is getting her a more comfortable pair of shoes because “these heels are killing me, Simon.” 

“Where's this comin’ from?” 

“From me,” Beth answers pointedly. “I'm tired of the shitty boyfriends.” She looks up at Simon and tilts her head, mouth curling up into a coy smile. “Also, I think you're a bit taken by her.” 

Simon chokes on his champagne. He looks away while he coughs and pounds his chest, hoping the heat crawling up his neck doesn't show on his face. 

“Baseless accusations,” he manages through a wheeze. Beth laughs. 

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say. Just make sure to dance with her at least, alright?” 

Ghost doesn't remember ever asking you for that dance. He remembers talking to you, making you laugh, and feeling like that should be enough. 

He regretted it all the way home. 

A heavy weight trickles down on him, from the crown of his head to the pit of his stomach. Wishes. Regrets. Could-have-beens in another lifetime. With a sudden snarl he shoves the photos back in the box, locks it, and throws it back into his closet. 

The closet door closes with a smack. 

This is why he never looks in here. There's nothing waiting for him but pain and disappointment, distractions from the here and now. What use is there in thinking about Beth's pretty friend? You don't even know he's alive. Have forgotten about him entirely by now, are probably married with kids— 

Another wave of nausea.  

Ghost just barely makes it to the bathroom to retch into the sink. 

----------

“How was work?” 

You transfer pasta onto dinner plates and garnish with a sprinkle of chives. You serve Dave first, then turn back to the kitchen to get water and candles. 

“Great,” Dave says around a mouthful of pasta. He's dug in immediately. You try to feel like it's a compliment to your cooking. He works hard. He's hungry. You like cooking for people, so that sinking little feeling in your chest must be from something else. 

“Our department's been doing really well. Making top sales for half a year now, so they did this raffle thing,” Dave continues, pausing to take a glass from your hands and down a few big gulps of water, “and guess what?”  

You open your mouth to ask “What?”, but Dave answers before you can.  

“I won!” 

You sit down, trying to muster enthusiasm. “That's great, baby. What was the raffle?” 

Dave leans forward. “One round trip to Bora-Bora, paid in full.” 

“Oh my gosh,” you say, and your smile doesn't feel so forced anymore. “That's amazing, congrats! That's such good timing.” 

Dave's vacation is coming up, and these things are usually plus-one. Right? Maybe that's what you've been needing. Some time away from it all, just the two of you spending time in sun and saltwater someplace beautiful and warm. 

“Sure is,” Dave says with a self-satisfied smile. His plate is half-empty; you're just taking your first bite. 

When he doesn't elaborate any further you hedge carefully, “So... Is it a solo trip? Or...” 

Dave furrows his brow apologetically. “Oh, babe. Yeah, it's a plus one, but it's for people from the company only. I'm sorry.” 

“Oh.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to look too disappointed. Guess that's on you for getting excited without knowing all the details. “So then who are you going with?” 

“Allison from Marketing.” 

Allison from who—? 

You pause mid-chew, looking at Dave with wide startled eyes. When he quirks an eyebrow you quickly swallow. “Do I—do I know this person?” 

“’Course you do, babe, c'mon. I've told you about her—she's like a work wife. Sales and Marketing are pretty much joint at the hip. When we go out for drinks it's always both teams together.” 

Your stomach curdles at work wife. “I don't remember ever hearing her name.” 

“Yeah you do, don't be silly. I talk about work friends all the time.” 

When he was out for drinks on your anniversary is that who he was with? Work friends? Allison from freaking Marketing? 

“Were you going to ask me if I was okay with that?” 

“What? Allison going on the trip?” Dave sounds incredulous. You're being crazy. You're being unreasonable. “Why, don't you trust me?” You're being demanding. Trust issues. Crazy bitch. 

“I do,” you say out of habit. “I do, but that's still—I would want you to ask me.” 

Dave sighs. Your stomach tenses. The pasta feels tacky in your mouth. 

“If it makes you happy, sure. You okay with me going on a trip with Allison?” 

Would you cancel if I said no? 

You can't bring yourself to say the words, but you also can't bring yourself to say of course, baby, you two have fun. 

“...Are you sure there's really no way I could go with you instead of—” 

Dave makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, pushing his empty plate away from him. “Come on, don't be difficult. I already told you, it's work only.” 

“Right. Okay.” 

“So that's a yes, yeah? I don't want you to call me crying about this later.” 

“Yeah,” you say, looking down at your hands. “Yeah.” 

When Dave makes attempts to draw you into the bedroom after dinner you claim a headache. Tired. Long day. Looking forward to turning in early. 

Dave shrugs. “Sure, okay. Actually—mind if I just go home early then? There's a match I was wanting to see, could still make it in time...” 

You should feel disappointed. Offended, maybe, that if sex isn't on the table Dave's no longer interested in your company. 

But all you feel is relief. You don't want to be around Dave right now; you feel your skin crawl and your stomach turn when you think about him sitting under palm trees next to some stranger. Your body feels like one big strain, trying to walk and talk and smile like normal. 

Dave gives you a wet cheek kiss before heading out the door and leaves you with a sink full of dirty dishes and a pensive mood. 

Kettlebell breaks you out of it with a chirp. He's come out of his hiding spot, winding through your legs with a purr. Mim hides no matter who is visiting, but after Dave tried to pick Kettlebell up like a sack of flour on his first time here neither of your cats show themselves when you have him over.  

“Cats,” Dave sniffed derisively. “Guess it's true. They're all little assholes, eh?” He'd laughed and given you a playful nudge you did not return. 

You bend down and scritch Kettlebell behind the ears. “Hi little angel baby. You're such a good boy, aren't you? Hmm? Does this little kitty want a treat?” 

Kettlebell's meows skyrocket to opera volume at the word treat. Mim materialises next to him, making high-pitched little cries that make you fuss and coo and plant kisses on his little forehead before giving them both their promised snack. 

You find that now that Dave's gone you weren't even lying; you are tired. The last thing you're in the mood for now is sex you pretend is better than it really feels.  

You rub your temple and eye the dishes.  

Tomorrow. You'll do it tomorrow—tonight you're allowed to be upset and re-watch Pride & Prejudice for the nth time to drown out Dave's mouth shaping the words “work wife.” 

“I hate men. I hate them all,” you cry. Your nose burns from blowing it so much; the skin chafed raw to match your heart. 

Beth rubs your back, nodding. “They're bastards, the lot of them.” 

“You're not allowed to say that,” you sniffle. “Tommy is so—he's so sweet.” Your eyes well with new tears, and you bury your face in your hands again. “Why can't I meet a Tommy? Why am I so dumb and so bloody naïve—” 

“Okay, hold on—if I'm not allowed to say all men are shite you're not allowed to say mean things about yourself.” Beth hands you a new tissue, brows furrowed. “You know this isn't your fault, right? 

“I just feel so stupid.” You dab the tissue against your eyes. Every time it feels like you can't cry any more a new wave comes on, and you wish it'd stop. Your eyes feel swollen and puffy already, and you know you're going to look terrible in the morning. “Like I should have seen it coming. Should I have seen this coming?” 

You look up at Beth anxiously, lip trembling. When she opens her mouth you interrupt her. “Don't answer that. I don't want the answer to be yes.” 

“Aw, honey.” Beth pulls in for a side-hug, and you rest your head on her shoulder. She smells like the oatmeal cookies she made this morning. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, he was a real cunt and he called you names, but no one would fault you for not immediately jumping to “he's going to cheat on me with your co-worker”.” 

You sigh. A stray tear trickles down your nose. “I just feel like it's my fault. There's always something, and I'm never satisfied, and you remember Cameron?” Beth nods yes. You continue, “When we broke up he said I wanted a fairytale, and t-that—” A sob breaks through, and you hiccup. “That I should—I should start living in reality.” 

Beth purses her lips like she's just bitten into a lemon. “Cameron also cheated on you with his cousin, so I think we're going to have to disregard his general judgment.” 

You give a begrudging shrug. Maybe, but what he said cut deep. It fed into the worry that the flaw was not in the eye of the beholder but the beholder herself, and that you're still just a silly little girl dreaming of starlight romance. 

It's quiet for a while. Rain ticks against the window panes outside. 

“I guess...” you start. Falter. Begin again. “I guess I wish I didn't want it so much. I want to be—to be the cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval, or love, or... I don't know.” 

“You are a cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval.” 

A sad little smile ghosts over your lips. “No I'm not. Because I always—I always want it. I want to find love. You know? And that makes me feel stupid.” 

Beth says gently, “Honey. You're not a bad person for wanting to be loved.” 

Your eyes peel open slowly. Netflix asks you are you still watching? on the screen. You blink, noting a warm weight on your feet; Kettlebell has made a little nest in the blankets. When you crane your neck you see the faint silhouette of Mim perched on the back of the sofa, dozing. 

What time is it...? 

You pat the cushions for your phone and groan. Six in the morning. Oh, your back is going to hurt. You really should know better than to fall asleep on the sofa by now... 

When you sink back into the cushions Kettlebell yawns and stretches, then hops onto your chest to press a wet insistent nose against your cheek. Breakfast time. 

“Okay, okay...” 

Might as well get up and shower. 

As you disentangle yourself from Kettlebell and fuzzy blankets bits and pieces of your dream come back to you. A memory distorted in sleep, but derived from lived reality nonetheless. 

The edges of it are hazy, but you know it was Beth. What'd she say...? It was something nice, to cheer you up after things ended badly with an ex-boyfriend.  

Again. 

Your shoulders sag. Maybe you don't want to be loved. If you did, you'd be happy now—because Dave loves you, and isn't that what you were always looking for?  

Someone you can be comfortable with, who knows you, who says I love you without you having to ask for it every time? 

You pull back the shower curtain and set the water to scorching. 

[respectthepetty]

Dear Taiwanese BLs, never stop giving me the "blinding light of love" moment.

I love a good old fashion color exchange but something about a blinding light appearing out of nowhere to signal the feelings are out in the open, people are thinking clearly, and the love is exposed just hits the spot.

Or you can give me that sweet sweet heart bokeh effect