#I just know it is worth it to detach from reality for like a week and come back as a changed person. cons are that I would be even less

[bullmotif]

the urge to ignore your assigned summer readings in favour of starting yet another Dostoevsky book that will ruin your life

[linoxpudding]

Intern (Pt 5)- Lee Know

summary: as the final month of your internship begins, keeping your emotions separate from your professional role becomes harder than ever, with the collaborative concert drawing near, tensions rise—not only on stage but between you and minho, who’s desperate to salvage what's slipping away

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, humor

word count: 5261 words

a/n: thank you so much for loving this series! I think this might be my most popular one and it honestly means the world, I really hope the wait was worth it! Love you always, my puddings ♡

Intern Series - Part Four

~°~

Your shoes echoed softly against the polished wood floor as you slipped into the staff room. Thankfully, it was empty. The moment the door shut behind you, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You stood there in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if you were trying to physically hold all your emotions in. You didn’t even know how your legs even carried you there. Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your pulse deafening in your ears. 

What just happened?

Your chest burned. Not with sadness but with fury. You were angry. No, scratch that, you were livid.

How dare he say those words—so easily, so suddenly—like he hadn’t spent weeks pushing you away. Like he hadn’t left you in that gray zone, hovering between hope and heartbreak, constantly questioning if you were the problem. You’d convinced yourself to move on. To detach. To protect your own heart. And now, after all of it, he wanted to say I love you? Just like that?

After everything. After making you feel like you were the fool for reading too much into the way his eyes lingered, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and then turned cold the moment you stepped a little too close, dismissed you like you were the problem, the one who “flirted too much.” You’d swallowed that hurt. You moved on. You forced yourself to. And now, suddenly, he loves you?

You let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, with trembling hands, you grabbed your bag from the shelf where you’d left it earlier that morning. You needed to leave. Now.

*******************

Minho didn’t even realize how long he’d been standing there, his fingers tangled in his hair, his heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and every moment since you’d walked away played on repeat in his head, like a broken record.

I lost her.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It wasn’t until Hyunjin’s voice cut through the thick silence that Minho finally snapped back to reality.

“Hyung?”

Minho didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his body hunched in on itself, trying to hold himself together when everything inside him was falling apart.

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Hyunjin asked again, softer this time, stepping closer. He bent down beside Minho, concern furrowing his brow.

Minho shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost her, Hyunjin... I don’t know what to do.”

Hyunjin’s heart twisted at the sight of his hyung like this, a shell of the confident, playful Minho he’d always known. The way his hyung’s hands gripped his hair tighter as he let out a pained groan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. It was raw—painful.

“You didn’t lose her yet,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm but gentle as he put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “I know it feels like you did. But you can still fix this.”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his lips trembling as he let out a breathless laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “I don’t know if I can. I... I hurt her, Jinnie. I pushed her away when all I had to do was be honest. And now... now she’s gone. She walked away from me.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Minho’s words. He could see it now—the weight of regret, the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t think she’s gone,” Hyunjin said carefully. “You’re both stubborn, hyung. You’ve been dancing around each other for so long. You didn’t want to admit it, and neither did she. But I don’t think it’s over. Not yet.”

Minho looked up at Hyunjin then, his eyes searching, hoping, desperate for any kind of reassurance. “But what if it is? What if I ruined it beyond repair? What if she doesn’t want me anymore?”

Hyunjin paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, hyung. She’s scared, too. But you’re the one who has to be brave now. Not only for her— but for yourself too. Because if you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever. You know that.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. Hyunjin’s words hit harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a chance, but only if he had the courage to act.

Hyunjin stood up, offering his hand to Minho. “You’re going to fix this, hyung. But you have to start with telling her the truth. About everything. And you’ve got to be ready for whatever comes after. Don’t let her slip away without fighting for her.”

Minho’s hand trembled as he took Hyunjin’s, pulling himself up to his feet. His heart still ached, but the words hit something deep inside of him. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

*******************

You barely remembered how you got home. The keys slipped from your fingers twice before you finally managed to unlock the door. The moment you stepped inside, your knees gave out and you slid down against the wall, feeling the weight of everything crash over you.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Hyunjin kept calling again and again. You pressed your forehead against your knees, willing yourself not to break down, willing yourself not to hope. And when your phone buzzed for the tenth time, you simply reached over, turned it off, and tossed it into a corner.

You couldn't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, your body moved on autopilot. You typed a message to your supervisor with trembling fingers, lying easily.

“I have a bad migraine. Won’t be able to work on fittings today. I’ll continue working on the designs remotely.”

A polite response came back almost immediately—“Take care. Focus on feeling better.”

You needed space—space from him, from the suffocating weight of everything. It was already the final month of your internship. Just a few more weeks, and you wouldn’t have to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over like a mantra as you buried yourself in sketches, swatches, sewing patterns. The living room became your sanctuary. You stayed hunched over your work for hours, sketching until your fingers cramped, trying to come up with excuses to tell your supervisor so that you do not have to step anywhere near their dressing rooms. Anywhere near him for the remaining internship period.

One step at a time—you just had to get through this.

The major stage collaboration was coming up, the biggest project of your internship, the one that could launch your career if you gave it your all.

Let the countdown begin.

*******************

48 Hours Before the Concert

You returned to work with your heart armored in ice. 

The company was in chaos. The stylists were rushing, the managers were running, the boys from both groups were rehearsing endlessly. No one had time to notice that you’d disappeared from their orbit—well except for Minho and Hyunjin.

You avoided their practice room like it was a battlefield. Instead, you locked yourself away in the design room, sketching out costumes, adjusting stitching details—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to keep your mind from wandering.

Minho tried to talk to you. At first, you heard his footsteps. You caught glimpses of him hovering by the door. Once, when you dared to glance up, you saw him standing just outside the window, his face tense, uncertain. But you dropped your head back down before he could gather the courage to step inside. You didn’t give him a chance.

Hyunjin also tried texting, looking for you after rehearsals, even poking his head into the design room but couldn’t find you since every time, you made yourself smaller, quieter, easier to miss.

You weren’t ready to face Minho. You weren’t sure if you ever would be. 

At some point, even Hyunjin gave up trying, swept away into the madness of final rehearsals, concept checks, and the insane pressure of the collaboration stage they were preparing.

You thought you were safe. You thought you could make it to the end.

24 Hours Before the Concert

Minho was unraveling. He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He was searching for you like a man possessed. Between rehearsals, between fittings, between breaks—his eyes flicked around desperately, always hoping to catch a glimpse.

He sent messages—one after another.

Minho: "Can we please talk?" Minho: "Just for a minute. You don’t even have to say anything. Please." Minho: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N."

You stared at the notifications, feeling your chest clench painfully.

You left them unanswered.

Because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know if you could survive hearing more empty words. Because some wounds weren’t meant to be picked open again.

That night, Minho sat in the darkened practice room, back against the mirror. The others had gone home. He stayed. The blue glow of his phone lit up his face, your unread messages staring back at him like ghosts.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a long time before he finally pressed it.

Minho: "I miss you."

Short. Honest. Bare. You never replied.

12 Hours Before the Concert

The final rehearsal was a whirlwind of noise and energy.

Seventeen and Stray Kids crisscrossed the stage, voices overlapping, last-minute notes flying as everyone tried to perfect every second. Everyone was running around doing their assigned tasks– sound engineers hovered by the sides of the stage, tweaking mic volumes and running emergency checks, stage managers paced with clipboards, calling out timing cues and adjusting placements, stylists were doing last-minute fittings.

You stayed hidden behind the racks of costumes, keeping yourself busy threading last-minute repairs on stage outfits, sketching alterations for the collaboration stages. Minho saw you once—just a glimpse—and started towards you immediately.

You ducked behind a different aisle and disappeared before he could even call your name.

He slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart ached. He was trying. God, he was trying. But you wouldn’t even look at him. And he knew he deserved it.

That night, he sat alone again. Hyunjin found him there, in the same spot, legs pulled up, forehead resting on his arms.

"Hyung…" Hyunjin said softly.

Minho didn't look up.

"I don’t think she hates you," Hyunjin added after a while, voice low. "She’s hurt. But she doesn’t hate you."

"I hate myself enough for the both of us," Minho murmured.

*******************

Day of the Concert 

You were up before sunrise and rushed to the company, it was going to be a long day. You began helping the senior stylists prepare everything. You kept your head down, blending into the background.

Minho tried to find you again, between makeup, between fittings.

Once, you walked right past him. You felt his eyes—burning, aching—trailing you, but you didn’t turn around.

He watched your retreating figure with a helpless kind of yearning, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed dry.

He typed one last message.

Minho: "If you don’t want to forgive me... I understand. But I love you. I love you, Y/N."

He didn’t expect a reply. He just wanted you to know.

You read his message, but your fingers stayed frozen above the screen. You couldn't trust yourself to reply. Not yet.

Soon after, it was time to leave for the concert venue.

Everyone from your company piled into multiple vans, buzzing with pre-show nerves and excitement. Seventeen would meet you all there, coming straight from their own company.

You slipped into one of the vans early, picking a seat at the very back. You tucked your bag close, phone clutched tightly in your hands. Minho hurried behind you, heart hammering in his chest.

There was a small opening beside you. He didn't even think—he moved to sit there.

He was about to slide into the seat beside you but at the very last second, you shifted, scooting away from the aisle, pressing yourself impossibly closer to the window. Pretending like you needed more space.

Minho froze mid-motion.

He stood there, awkward, shattered, the empty space where you had been just a second ago feeling colder than anything he'd ever known.

His hand tightened around the back of the seat for a second, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Without a word, he dropped into a seat several rows in front instead, boxed in between Jisung and Seungmin.

The van door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life—but Minho barely noticed. He barely heard the others laughing, hyping each other up. He barely felt the road vibrating under the tires. All he could feel was you—silent, turned away from him, just a few feet out of reach.

When they finally pulled up behind the venue, staff started piling out. You were the first one to slip off the van, blending into the chaos of bodies and equipment and flashing lights.

Minho lingered for a second in the seat, swallowing thickly as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

He had the urge to call out your name. He almost did. But he bit it back, lowering his head, heart cracking silently in his chest.

*******************

The air backstage crackled with adrenaline—stylists rushing, cords tangling, outfits getting last-minute steamed.

You were helping your supervisor adjust Felix’s jacket, smoothing the sleeves, checking the fit one last time. Your hands worked automatically, your mind floating somewhere far away.

Across the crowded room, Minho kept staring at you longingly. For a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d let him. Maybe you’d glance at him. But when you shifted away, without even looking at him, it felt like a punch to the gut. Like watching a door slowly, painfully close in his face.

He sat down numbly at the makeup table, the bustling room fading into the background and all he could think was:

"I don’t blame you... but please, just once—look back at me."

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, sitting a few chairs away, was locked in the makeup artist’s grip, a brush sweeping across his cheekbones. But he still tried. He still tried to catch your eyes, frantic and desperate, needing you to see him. You lifted your head, sensing the weight of his stare and all you could offer him was a small, polite smile. Nothing more.

You could tell Hyunjin wanted to call out to you, to jump out of his chair, to explain everything he hadn’t been able to. But the makeup artist was sternly holding his chin still, murmuring warnings about smudging his foundation. He couldn’t move.

And so he watched you quietly, heartbreak pooling in his chest, as you finished adjusting Felix’s jacket...and turned away without another glance.

*******************

1 Hour Before the Concert

You had just grabbed a coffee from the catering area backstage, trying to escape the buzz of frantic preparations. The area was buzzing with energy, crew members darting from one spot to another, but you found a small moment of calm amidst it all. The food table was lined with snacks, coffee, and drinks, where you’d managed to find a brief respite. You were leaning against the counter, sipping your drink slowly, when the door to the room burst open with a loud bang.

Hyunjin stormed inside, his eyes wild and intense, looking like he had been running through the entire venue. His hair was slightly tousled, chest heaving with quick breaths as if he was on a mission.

Before you could even react, he reached for your wrist, gripping it firmly and pulling you out of the room.

“Come with me,” he commanded, urgency lacing his voice.

"Hyunjin—!" you gasped, stumbling after him. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"You’re done hiding!" he snapped, not even slowing down.

He pulled you into an empty band room backstage, and shoved the door shut behind you, trapping you inside. You barely caught your balance, turning to glare at him—but the look on Hyunjin’s face made your heart falter.

He looked furious. And desperate.

"You need to stop running, Y/N," he said, voice sharp, shaking slightly with emotion. "You think you’re protecting yourself? You’re just hurting both of you."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying. "It’s not that simple, Hyunjin—"

"YES, it is!" he cut you off, voice cracking, "You’re mad. You’re hurt. I get it. But Minho hyung—"

His voice broke again and he punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist, breathing hard.

"He’s dying," Hyunjin said, lower now, almost broken. "He’s breaking in front of us. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Every time he sees you, it's like someone rips another piece out of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

"You think you’re the only one hurting?" Hyunjin asked, stepping closer, so close you could feel the sadness vibrating off him. "He’s been tearing himself apart for days, trying to find a way to fix this, and you won’t even LOOK at him."

You shook your head helplessly, voice cracking, "He’s the one who—"

"He knows," Hyunjin cut you off desperately, "He knows he fucked up. He hates himself for it. You think it’s easy for him to stand there and watch you pretend like he doesn’t exist?"

You stared at him, heart pounding, breath shaking.

Hyunjin whispered, “He loves you, Y/N.”

“No, he doesn’t.” you shot back. “He saw Mingyu and got territorial. That’s not the same thing as love.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened a little, but the intensity stayed, "Listen to me. Minho hyung…he’s dying inside. He’s been trying to talk to you for days. He's not playing games. He’s not saying those things because he's jealous of Mingyu or whatever else you think."

You bit your lip, hard. "Then why, Hyunjin? Why now? After everything?"

"Because he’s an idiot who thought he didn’t deserve you," Hyunjin said, voice raw. "He pushed you away because he was scared he’d ruin you. Because he thought you’d be better off without him."

Your heart stuttered painfully.

"And seeing you laugh with Mingyu made him realize exactly what he was about to lose," Hyunjin continued. "Not because of jealousy. Because he saw you happy and he wasn’t the one making you happy anymore."

The lump in your throat grew unbearable.

"He really loves you, Y/N," Hyunjin said simply. "He’s loved you this whole time. He just didn’t know how to believe he was worthy of it."

Your vision blurred.

Then, Hyunjin went on to explain everything — how Minho had been in love with you all along, how he had been miserable every time you avoided him backstage, how he stayed up at night overthinking every glance you refused to give him. How he regretted what he said at that freaking party every single day, hated himself for it, how the weight of it had been crushing him more and more every time you turned away.

Hearing it laid out like that shattered something inside you. It wasn’t just regret in Minho’s lingering stares. It was love — raw, desperate, aching love. And it had always been there, even when you were too hurt to see it.

You felt suffocated. 

"Don’t do this," Hyunjin whispered, almost pleading now, "don’t walk away without hearing him out. If you ever loved him…even a little, give him the chance to explain."

You felt your walls crumbling under the weight of it all. Without another word, you tore past Hyunjin, sprinting down the hall.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Not until you found him. You tore down the hall, nearly tripping over your own feet, chest heaving, heart racing so hard it hurt.

You didn’t know where you were going—you just knew you had to find him.

*******************

The greenroom was quiet—eerily so. Everyone else was getting hair and makeup in other room, doing last checks, hyping each other up. Minho sat there alone, away from everyone, for a moment. 

Meanwhile, you kept running— the backstage corridors blurred as you rushed past, heart hammering, breath coming in short gasps. Somewhere, you could hear the muffled sounds of last-minute chaos—stylists calling for touch-ups, managers barking out directions, the low hum of excitement—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater.

Finally, after checking room after room, your footsteps faltered in front of a greenroom tucked away from the rest. The door was slightly ajar, and you prayed he was inside. You pushed it open with trembling fingers, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Minho.

Sitting alone on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, the dark, sleek fabric molding perfectly to his figure. His mic was already clipped to his collar, earpieces in place, as if he were ready to go onstage any second. But he wasn’t moving.

He was hunched forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had already ended and he was the only one left to mourn it.

The second he heard the door creak wider, his head snapped up.

He whispered your name, "Y/N..."

So soft. So broken. Like he didn’t believe you were real. It shattered you.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you rushed across the room, and before he could even speak, your hands were cupping his jaw and your lips crashed into his.

Minho stiffened for half a second, completely shocked and then his arms were around you, pulling you flush against him, kissing you back with everything he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips trembling against his with everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t dared to feel until now. 

When you finally pulled back, panting, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I hate you.”

He laughed, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I know.”

“I hate how long it took you.”

“I hate me too.”

“But I love you.”

Minho stilled.

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter than they ever had. “I love you more,” he murmured. “And I swear I’ll prove it every day from now on.”

You smiled, your eyes full of tears and joy and relief. “You better.”

Minho’s voice was rough, barely a whisper as he spoke. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with all the emotions that had built up. "I know, Minho. Just... show me. Show me you're not going to run away again."

His hand gently cupped your face again, his thumb brushing over your lips softly. “I won’t run. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, he leaned in again, this time more carefully, his lips brushing against yours with a softer, more deliberate motion, like he was savoring the moment, as if this was the first time.

The door slammed open.

"AHHHHHH! MY EYES!" Jisung screamed, dramatically throwing himself against the door frame like he was shielding himself from radiation.

You jolted apart, both of you wide-eyed and breathless.

Felix appeared behind Jisung, peeking into the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Hyung," Felix said, "We need to be on stage in like twenty five minutes." Then he glanced between you two and grinned brightly. "Also, um, HOW did this happen?"

Jisung gasped, "Like LIKE… you were literally at war yesterday! HOW are you kissing now? I need DETAILS!"

"Was it a secret make-up plan?? Did someone blackmail someone? TELL ME EVERYTHING—"

"Channie hyung’s gonna kill us if we’re late!" Felix laughed, tugging on Jisung’s sleeve, but he was also bouncing on his toes, eager for gossip.

"And Y/N, you have to explain later, okay? Like every single detail. Every single one."

Somewhere down the hall, you heard Chan’s voice yelling, "WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?"

Minho groaned under his breath, leaning down to quickly kiss your forehead—just one soft second—and then he grabbed his mic pack and jogged toward the door.

But as he passed you, he whispered under his breath, only for you to hear, "Don’t go anywhere. I’m not letting you slip away again."

You stood there, heart pounding, lips still tingling, while Jisung whined the whole way down the hallway, “Yah! I’m serious! I'm coming for answers after the show!”

And you just laughed, happier than you had been in days.

*******************

The final performance was just moments away. Ten minutes give or take. You stood backstage, heart racing—not from nerves, but from everything that had happened.

Minho adjusted his mic, glancing at you with a silent question in his eyes. You stepped closer, pulling him aside for a moment, fingers gently brushing against his as you whispered, “Earlier, when Mingyu and I were talking… he wasn’t flirting.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“He said he could see something going on between you and me. That he’d back off. And… that maybe I hadn’t noticed it myself yet.”

Minho let out a breathy laugh, hand raking through his hair. “God. I really need to control my damn jealousy.”

You smiled softly, Minho flushed slightly before saying, “He wasn’t wrong, though. About the heart eyes.”

You blushed then gently nudged his arm. “Come on, make peace with him. You two are too handsome to be fighting in the middle of rehearsals.”

Minho rolled his eyes but smiled, nodding. He walked over to Mingyu, who was talking with Joshua by the corner while adjusting his blazer, and you watched from afar as Minho gave a sincere apology. Mingyu accepted it with a grin and a clap on Minho’s shoulder, flashing you a wink behind him. Everything just… settled.

And then, the concert. The adrenaline. The stage lights. The roars of the crowd.

Both the collaboration stages and the groups' individual performances were breathtaking— hours of relentless energy, passion, and magic spilling out onto that stage. The entire venue was electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and screaming fans, every second more exhilarating than the last.

You danced and moved like nothing else mattered. But every time your eyes found Minho’s on stage, there was a knowing smile—one only meant for you.

After the final bow, the cheers still ringing in your ears, you were barely backstage for a minute when Minho grabbed your wrist gently and whispered, “Come with me.”

"Minho," you giggled breathlessly, "where are we even going?!"

"Somewhere no one will find us," he muttered determinedly, glancing around until he spotted a half-open door.

Without warning, he pulled you inside.

“I’ve been waiting all night,” he said, breathless.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t careful.

It was urgent, desperate, his hands cupping your face as if he’d been starving for your lips. Your back hit the wall lightly as you gasped against his mouth, hands sliding under his jacket and gripping his shirt.

His lips moved feverishly over yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he’d buried into this moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered against your lips, “You have no idea how crazy I’ve been going… not being able to do this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him back in. “Then don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

That kiss was everything—the apology, the promise, the confession, and the beginning. All in one.

*******************

The concert had ended, the cheers still echoing faintly in the corridors as everyone bustled around, packing up, high-fiving, celebrating.

Mingyu leaned against the wall near the dressing room door, sipping water and scrolling through his phone when a voice interrupted him.

"You were amazing up there," she said, her tone warm and teasing.

He looked up to see one of the stage crew members—someone he’d briefly chatted with before—smiling at him, her hands tucked behind her back, eyes bright.

Mingyu blinked, a little surprised. “Oh thank you. You too, the transitions were super smooth today.”

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I did my best. But I was watching you the whole time.”

Mingyu raised a brow, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She stepped a little closer, playfully nudging his arm. “You always smile so much when you perform. It’s contagious.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

She tilted her head. “You doing anything after this?”

For a second, Mingyu glanced toward the dressing room, where laughter echoed—where his bandmates were chattering.

Then he looked back at her, his smile softening. “Not yet,” he said. “But I could be.”

Her grin widened.

And just like that, maybe Mingyu’s heart started to heal too.

*******************

Minho’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw, his hands framing your face as if he still couldn’t believe this was real. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, breath mingling as you leaned into him, every inch of space between you practically non-existent.

The air was hot, your heart pounding louder than any concert speaker. His forehead rested against yours, breathless as he whispered, “I’m not letting go of you again. Ever.”

You smiled, pulling him back into another kiss — slower this time, but no less intense. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy, the kind that left no question about how badly he wanted you — and how badly you wanted him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked tightly around your waist, pressing you against the wall.

It was messy and breathless, both of you still slightly shaking from the adrenaline of the concert.

"Missed you," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice hoarse.

You were just about to mumble "me too" when a loud knock rattled the door.

Minho froze mid-kiss, groaning against your lips. You stifled a laugh.

“Hyung?” Han’s voice called, too amused for your liking. “Minho hyung, will this continue all night or should we leave snacks outside the door?”

You buried your face in Minho’s chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Minho hyung is seriously down bad,” Hyunjin chimed in, voice loud and dramatic.

“Excuse you,” Han called out, raising an eyebrow. “Your bestie Y/N is equally down bad.”

You playfully smacked Minho's chest, laughing into his shirt. “Did your wife just out me like that?”

Minho groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat, "Kill me," he muttered. "Right now. Just kill me."

You both heard Han and Hyunjin start bickering again — something about who was more down bad between you and Minho — and you couldn't help but giggle quietly against Minho, your heart feeling so full you thought it might burst.

“YAH!” Minho finally shouted, voice filled with exasperated affection. “You want to die? Leave us alone!”

A pause.

Then shuffling footsteps and exaggerated gagging noises as they walked off. You and Minho looked at each other and were shaking with laughter, tangled in each other and unwilling to part.

You sighed happily, still held close. “We really are that bad, huh?”

Minho leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Maybe. But I’m not sorry.”

Minho tightened his arms around you, swaying you both lazily, “I love you, you know,” he murmured, so gently it melted into your skin.

A big smile broke across your face.

“I love you too, Minho,” you whispered back, like it was the easiest thing in the world — because with him finally, it was.

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[polyantha]

hot take: lucy gray had a low impact on coriolanus as a person. my bet is it took about 4 weeks to forget completely about her.

i think this because of the nature of “love” he feels for her. he treats her like something to nurture his ego, something to feed off of. coriolanus doesn’t have much of an idea of love, and borderline gaslights himself into thinking he’s in love with her. (remember, while we’re reading from his perspective, it’s still third person. we only hear what he can realize or admit, it’s greatly detached from reality. with the trilogy, we are living inside katniss, there’s no time for her to censor feelings before they’re on the page.)

it boils down to pure shallowness. we don’t learn lucy gray’s favorite color, her backstory, the little things she does every day, her favorite songs. coriolanus can’t find real beauty in her worth talking about to the reader. he once mentally sided with billy taupe, the man who sent her to her possible death (!!!!) because she wasn’t being as pliable and entertaining as he unconsciously demanded.

if i had to explain what it was like for him, i would describe the moments of “loving feelings” as when your pet does a trick or something cute for you. it’s empty, it’s underwhelming, there’s no poetic boundless adoration. the real rush comes from knowing she loves him so much, trusts him so much. he feels as if he’s finally getting what he deserves.

relationships like that are as easy to replace as an item of clothing. you miss it for a while, how much of a good person you felt like, the dopamine increase of a human’s affection at your fingertips. but there’s always someone next in line who fits just as well.

[crookedcatruins]

I shifted !!!

Ok, sorry I just got back so this is going to be all over the place😭. I shifted, I said full shift I was there for 3 weeks guys (I've shifted before but it was like a mini shift or it was not to where I actually wanted to go.)

And it was to my better CR. I saw my dad.... you guys I saw my dad☺️☺️. He has passed away when I was seven in this reality and I saw him there. The 2 years i have spent trying to get there is nothing compared to what I felt when I saw him. I don't even know why am back, everything was like I imagined, and there was all the food I scripted, trump was not there too, that ugly cybertruck was never made🤧, there were no bigots, there were more blackpink songs, I had the stuff I wanted.

Ok ok I'm yapping too much I'm sure you just want to know how I shifted.

How it happened

Again I just got here so my mind is a mess. but what I remember is that I laid down and I told myself that I deserve this, again and again and again. like I didn't even think about shifting I just said I deserve the greatest things in the universe, and then I started thinking about my DR. when I was losing focus I kept bringing back my focus to the back of my head and not the front (sort of helped me to detach idk why) and then I started hearing voices and it was my DR Brothers.

My heart beat got so fast but I focused all my attention to the voices of my brothers and after that there was a blinding light. Then I felt like I was there, that I have shifted. but I couldn't adjust my eyes for some reason and almost took me what I assume at least 4 hours to adjust my body.

I'm not kidding it took me hours to adjust to my body and my surrounding because my mind was screaming at me, something was banging in my head. I don't know if this is normal but I've never felt like this before, regardless after that I was starting to feel normal and I started getting back my memories and that's how I shifted.

NP

I don't know if this works for everyone but something that works for me is that I notice that once I get to a "big symptom" I stop saying affirmations because it kind of sets me back and makes me repeat the process instead of getting me there. so I change whatever I was doing (so if I was saying affirmations, as soon as I get symptoms I stop doing that and do something else cuz I feel like it will just repeat the process from the beginning) the reason I'm adding this is because it made a huge difference in my journey. it's just for me though I don't know what works for you.

Pls excuse my grammar or any mistakes as I said Idk what am typing right now. I just felt like I need to put this out there because please, please don't give up it's all worth it. I promise with everything that I have and love it's all real!!!!!

(probably going to edit this later when I'm in a better State of Mind lol)

Remember all you need is yourself

[terriblesoup]

The reality of Creative Burnout

It's been a while since I've last written anything, and it's been bothering me so when you read this and you picture me as a karen holding her 10 am red wine and with a child-hating fueled anger complaining about the bird noise in her backyard, then you've done me justice that's exactly how I feel and look.

1. Understanding creative burnout: More than just exhaustion

When we talk about burnout in general, it is mostly a consequence of overwhelming tasks on a monotonous routine basis which causes fatigue that is both emotional and physical. Creative burnout is more tied to the emotional and intellectual demands of an artist. It deeply affects the ability to generate new ideas or feeling any joy in one's craft.

And if you've been there,-and I am most certain you have been- you know it's not just being a little tired or feeling like taking a long nap. It’s that special kind of exhaustion where your brain feels like a dried-out sponge someone left in the sun for three weeks.

And when your ideas evaporate faster than your morning coffee and every attempt to create something feels like pulling your own teeth, your brain has never been this loud and blank at the same time. You know it's time to put down your pen and breathe because there's more to it than you being an art failure ( you're not).

And I'll tell you why it's happening to you and not others: because creative work is like putting your soul on display, and when it doesn’t come out perfect, it feels personal. Add to that deadlines, the pressure to innovate, and the charming little voice of self-doubt, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for burnout stew. Plus, let’s be real—most of us work alone. There’s no office buddy to say, “Hey, it’s fine, go take a walk.” Nope, it’s just you and the void, staring each other down.

2. The triggers of creative burnout: Pressure, Perfectionism, and Pace

It doesn’t happen because you’re lazy, unmotivated, or bad at your job. It happens because the world-or your own brain-has decided you need to function like a creativity vending machine. Insert a deadline, press a button, and voilà: a masterpiece pops out. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work like that.

If you've hit our common wall, it's probably because of one or all the three usually culprits :

High expectations:

The weight of expectations is crushing, especially when you’re the one piling it on yourself.

“Just be better than last time,” you think. Great. Now every project feels like a fight to prove your worth, to everyone, including yourself. Because apparently, creating something good isn’t enough anymore-it has to be perfect. No pressure, though <3.

Tight deadlines (because,duh, genius happens overnight, wait what do you mean you can't? You're fired)

There’s nothing like a deadline to drain the soul out of your work. The clock starts ticking, and suddenly you’re not making art; you’re cranking out products. Deadlines kill spontaneity. They don’t care if you’re inspired or running on fumes.

Let’s be real,when was the last time a creative deadline felt reasonable? It’s always,“Can you have this by yesterday?” Forget brilliance. You’re lucky if you can slap something together that doesn’t embarrass you.

Overworking (this is on you):

“I’ll stop after this one thing.” you won’t! One more thing turns into an all-nighter, which turns into a month of over-caffeinated tunnel vision. The grind never ends because we’ve convinced ourselves that rest is a luxury instead of a necessity.

Working nonstop doesn’t make you a genius. It makes you tired. But sure, keep skipping meals, ignoring friends, and convincing yourself that burnout is just “part of the process.” That always ends well.

3. How burnout affects the creative process: Loss of inspiration and drive

For writers, burnout often looks like the dreaded block. You stare at the page, but the words don’t come. Your once-flowing ideas now feel like trying to pull water from a stone. Artists might find themselves detached from their work, going through the motions with no emotional connection to the piece. Musicians might start to dread performing, feeling overwhelmed by anxiety instead of joy. Whatever the medium, the result is the same: you feel stuck, uninspired, and utterly out of sync with your craft.

The first wave of burnout is frustration. You know you’re capable of more. You remember what it felt like to be in the zone, to create something that lit you up inside. But now, every attempt feels like wading through molasses. The ideas don’t come, or worse, they feel hollow and forced. And when your work doesn’t meet your own standards, the frustration multiplies.

Oh look over there! It's the heaping side of guilt getting closer. You feel like a failure because you’re not creating-or not creating enough-and the shame can be paralyzing. What’s worse is knowing that your creative block isn’t from a lack of talent or skill but sheer exhaustion. You’re stuck in a loop: can’t create because you’re burned out, and can’t shake the burnout because you feel too guilty to rest.

Then it messes with your relationship to your work. You might start to resent the thing you once loved because now it feels like an obligation. Every project feels like a chore, and the joy that once fueled your creativity is nowhere to be found.

The final gut punch of burnout is the loss of drive. That innate desire to create, to express yourself, to bring something new into the world-it’s gone. Or at least, it’s hiding under a mountain of fatigue, frustration, and guilt. Without that drive, even the idea of creating can feel overwhelming.

But here’s the thing: burnout isn’t permanent. It’s a signal-not that you’re broken, but that you’ve been running too hard for too long. The only way back is through rest, reflection, and reminding yourself why you started in the first place. Creativity isn’t something you can force, and burnout isn’t something you can hustle your way out of. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is stop.

4. Breaking the cycle: coping mechanisms for recovering from burnout

Burnout recovery isn’t a sprint-it’s a messy, sometimes uncomfortable process. But it’s possible.

Take intentional breaks

No no, not doom-scrolling on your phone or calling it “relaxation” while secretly stressing about unfinished projects. I’m talking real breaks, time spent doing things that genuinely recharge you. Go for a walk, binge that guilty pleasure show without shame, or sit outside and stare at trees like you’re auditioning for a meditation app. The point is to stop trying to be productive for a little while.

Reconnect with your passion

Burnout tends to make your creative passion feel like a chore. To fix that, strip away all the pressure. Draw just for fun. Write nonsense that no one will ever see. Try something new and low-stakes, like pottery or finger painting (yes, finger painting, I like doing makeup to recharge, it requires no thinking). Remember why you started creating in the first place, back when it wasn’t about deadlines or expectations.

Set boundaries like your life depends on It

Because, honestly? It kind of does. Start saying “no” to things that drain you-unreasonable clients, soul-sucking projects, or your own impossible standards. Tell people (and yourself) that your time and energy are finite resources. It’s not selfish; it’s survival.

Seek professional help

Sometimes, burnout runs deeper than “needing a break.” If you’re overwhelmed by guilt, anxiety, or hopelessness, a therapist can help you sort through the emotional mess and build healthier coping mechanisms. Therapy isn’t a last resort; it’s a tool for getting your creative spark back without setting yourself on fire in the process.

Practice self-compassion

This is the hardest one because we’re our own worst critics. But here’s the truth: you’re allowed to step back. You’re allowed to rest. You don’t have to earn your worth through endless creation. Burnout isn’t a personal failure-it’s a sign that you’ve been pushing too hard for too long. Treat yourself with the kindness you’d offer a struggling friend ( and I knoooowww y'all have a problem practicing your own advice, I just know.)

Redefine success

Let go of the idea that you need to be constantly producing to be “successful.” Your worth isn’t tied to how much you create or how perfect it is. Focus on the journey, not the output. Celebrate the small wins, even if they’re as simple as writing one paragraph or sketching a single line( took me two weeks to write this blog btw, I am taking that small win and winning it all over the place).

5. The myths of creative burnout: Overcoming society’s expectations of “nonstop productivity”

Real creatives never run out of ideas

Ever heard someone say, “If you’re a real writer/painter/musician, the ideas will always flow”? Yeah, no. Creativity isn’t a bottomless well; it’s more like a battery that drains with use. And guess what? Batteries need to be recharged. Running out of ideas isn’t a sign you’re a fraud—it’s a sign you’re human. Even the greats had dry spells (Vincent van Gogh painted only about 900 masterpieces; what a slacker, right?).

Productivity equals success

Our society worships the grind. If you’re not constantly producing, you’re seen as lazy or unmotivated. Churning out work nonstop doesn’t guarantee quality-or fulfillment. It guarantees exhaustion. Creativity thrives on space, experimentation, and, yes, sometimes doing absolutely nothing. Success isn’t about how much you produce; it’s about creating something meaningful, even if it takes time.

Burnout means you’re weak

Feeling burnt out doesn’t mean you lack resilience or passion. It means you’ve been pushed (or pushed yourself) too far. Society likes to frame burnout as a personal failure, but it’s often the result of external pressures.

6. Case studies of famous creatives who Struggled with Burnout (because I know you like comparing yourselves to celebrities level of accomplishments)

- Sylvia Plath: The weight of perfectionism

Sylvia Plath was a literary genius, but her pursuit of perfection left her emotionally drained. Known for her meticulous writing process, she placed immense pressure on herself to produce work of extraordinary quality. The weight of expectations-both external and internal-fueled her creativity but also contributed to her burnout.

-Vincent van Gogh: Isolation and emotional strain

Van Gogh’s artistry was inseparable from his emotional vulnerability. Living in near poverty and estranged from much of society, he worked obsessively, creating over 2,000 artworks in a decade. His intense drive often led to physical and mental collapse, and his letters to his brother, Theo, reveal his feelings of inadequacy and despair.

- Virginia Woolf: The strain of genius

Virginia Woolf balanced brilliance with fragility. Her modernist works, like Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse, revolutionized storytelling, but the intense effort to break traditional literary molds took a toll. She struggled with depressive episodes exacerbated by creative pressure and societal constraints placed on women writers of her era.

These geniuses remind us that brilliance often comes at a cost when unbalanced by rest or self-care. They teach us the importance of acknowledging limits, seeking support ( for the love of God and everything good, please do), and that success isn’t about sacrificing yourself for art; it’s about sustaining a process that brings joy and meaning.

7. Burnout as a catalyst for growth: turning struggles into strength

Our beast (I wonder if there's a hot drawing of the burnout beast somewhere on the internet) strips everything down to the bare essentials. It asks uncomfortable but necessary questions:

“Why am I doing this?”

“What do I really want to create?”

“Am I living my life, or just existing for my work?”

And I know these questions can feel overwhelming, but they’re also the foundation for growth. Many creatives emerge from burnout with a clearer sense of purpose, focusing on what truly matters instead of chasing every expectation or opportunity.

It can also add depth to your work. The frustration, exhaustion, and rebuilding process give you stories to tell, emotions to convey, and empathy for others who struggle. In a way, burnout teaches you not only how to survive but how to thrive (slay...?).

Final thought:

So, yeah, burnout sucks. It's like that awful, ugly detox you didn't sign up for but apparently needed. But hey, if you're lucky enough to survive it, maybe you'll come out the other side a little more self-aware, with healthier boundaries, and maybe even a fresh perspective on what it means to create. Or, you know, you'll just figure out how to keep the chaos at bay long enough to finish that project you’ve been avoiding. Either way, just remember: it's totally fine to take a step back-because if you burn yourself out enough, you'll eventually be forced to. And, funnily enough, that's when you might just make your best stuff.

I've made this blog because I wanted to talk about censorship in political aspects and all that but I've never felt a heavier subject than it, I do not understand why I couldn't do it. I still can't find myself writing about it even though I've already planned the key points and all that baggage. Well anyway, I hope you enjoyed this "light-hearted" subject.

[sophie-frm-mars]

hi! are there perhaps any thoughts youd like to share with someone navigating the early days of a BPD diagnosis? its not necessarily a call for advice, given that it's hard to do without knowing the specific situation and also youre just some lady, but rather that youve been very open about your experiences and research on the topic of mental disorders, so id be interested in any insights youve acquired through it that might be valuable for someone who's starting to properly step into the pool of psychiatry for the first time in their life and has a very interesting mixed bag of feelings about it.

ps: needless to say, im super excited about your upcoming essay.

thanks!

Sure absolutely

I was diagnosed with BPD for the first time over a decade ago and the most immediate thing that helped me was DBT, because the skills that you have to learn in DBT really are just a handbook for how to be a person, which is pretty great. I didn't have the level of independence and control over my own life at that point to be able to really build the life worth living that would help me the way I have today, but doing DBT after my initial diagnosis was still the single biggest change in my happiness, my general attachment to reality, how I treated others and everything else that mental well-being comprises. I also didn't have a very good therapist, we just didn't vibe.

This year I've been doing DBT again after realizing that grief, trauma from being in an abusive relationship and work stress sent me into a mental health spiral that involved me doing bad irresponsible kink with people and treating people pretty inconsiderately. I was derealising, paranoid and otherwise detached from reality for a lot of 2023. Looking back it became obvious that one of the core features of BPD, the "unrelenting crisis", had never stopped for me and that I hadn't made a life that really helps me be stable and secure in who I am. This year I've had more control over my world than I did when I was a university student, so I've thrown myself into DBT wholeheartedly. I know that a week where I'm not doing everything on the ABC PLEASE checklist is a week where my mental health is compromised and I need to either slow down and rest or get back on the checklist immediately. I treat it with life or death seriousness, because early this year I would have died if I had carried on how I was or if I hadn't been doing DBT. I also have a really good therapist now.

Get friends who will tell you honestly when you've done something wrong but who still love you the same and listen to them. Be aware of what your support network looks like. I have a Sophie's support bubble discord that people are in because of how immediate my crisis was, but as time has gone on things have relaxed and I usually talk to people one on one more

[olderthannetfic]

I'm a known writer for my fandom. It's a very small fandom, so it doesn't really mean anything, but I got there early and built a nice little following.

I don't know what happened in the past few weeks, but I suddenly started getting a bunch of anon asks in my inbox demanding I express myself on the "issue" that is the current Palestinian situation. I've been ignoring them, blocking the anons, but they just kept fucking coming.

Under my last fic, I got a couple of guest comments accusing me of being antisemitic and a couple of guest comments accusing me of being an islamophobic colonizer. Under the same story!! How???

I had to disallow guest comments and anons, so now I keep receiving insults and demands that I express my opinion through sock puppet accounts. I don't know how many fucking times I've been so far labelled as a Zionist and an antisemite, and the last asks I've received got really over the top and violent, claiming that I'm the reason why Palestinian children are dying and I'm a privileged white woman (I'm not white and emigrated from a third world country, but ok) and I'm contributing to genocide.

And I'm so fucking tired of this internet activism! So, so fucking tired!

Because the reason why I engage with fandom is to take a step away from reality. I watch the fucking news, I spend my due time informing myself about global issues on the internet, I do discuss this shit with my IRL friends and colleagues and family members, I go to protests, and during the BLM protests I was out there helping with water and first aid.

But fandom is fucking me time. It's the time of my day when I unplug my brain and write whatever the fuck I want, reblog gif sets on Tumblr, and watch thirst traps on TikTok. I don't log into Tumblr, the site that cunts use to spread misinformation and fake Go Fund Me's and people who pretend to have written My Immortal to promote their shitty memoir, to receive or do any kind of information.

Stop looking for influencers and random people on the internet to explain to you global issues! Why the fuck are you people so into your own asses that you can't fucking understand the reason why some kid who got famous for dancing while wearing cat ears doesn't want to talk about their opinion about far more serious matters?

Everything has a place and a time, and some people realize that their audience goes to them to detach from reality, rather than being reminded of it.

"Oh, but if you don't talk about it, it means you're supporting the bad guys!" Sure! Because the fucking apartheid is build specifically on me not wanting to use my fandom blog to post pictures of dead children and raped women! Too bad that Nelson Mandela became an activist before the internet, uh? He could've solved a bunch of issues by posting a couple of Insta stories!

"Oh, you don't realize how privileged you are to be able to ignore the issue!" I'm not fucking ignoring it, I'm ignoring it in places where my opinion matters less than zero! And yes, I'm fully aware that I'm privileged to be able to ignore it, but you're disgusting because you're using it as a way to build a following on a blogging platform. Hope that posting pictures of slaughtered human bodies was really worth the 50 followers it got you, Allison!

I don't know if this makes sense. Whatever. I'm fucking pissed.

--

Sounds like a bunch of clowns in a discord somewhere decided to target you or something.

[brettdoesdiscourse]

I get so fucking tired of this same conversation. So, let's break this down one last time because some of yall still do not get it.

Service workers know their employers should be paying them more. There isn't a service worker out there who is thinking, "no it's totally fine that my employer can pay me less than $3 an hour."

This is a systematic issue, it's not easily fixed by "go on strike or unionize!"

I don't know how detached you all from the reality of the working world, but if people could afford to just unionize or strike and have it work well enough, we wouldn't deal with nearly as much worker mistreatment and exploitation.

Let's start with unions.

Does your work already have a union or would you have to form one yourself? Do you know how to find and join your union? Can you afford any union dues you may have to pay? Let's hope you're not one of more than 60% of Americans who are living paycheck to paycheck.

And let's say you are in a union, are you comfortable with your job now being threatened? While it's certainly true employers can't legally fire you for being in a union, they can fire you for tons of other reasons and people in unions often experience this problem.

So, you've potentially hard to start a union, paid money you may not really have, and now fear job insecurity. Now, let's hope your union successfully works to raise your wage to an acceptable level.

Assuming it doesn't, let's assume you have a strike.

Strikes aren't like they seem on social media. These aren't just cute little walk-outs. You will lose your pay from your employer during this time. If you're in a union, you'll usually receive strike pay. Although, this is not usually a full paycheck. Again, let's hope you aren't one of these more than 60% of Americans who live paycheck to paycheck. Let's hope you and your family can afford to live off the strike pay.

Let's also hope you get enough people on board with your strike to actually make a difference. Let's also hope that the wage increase you may or may not get is significant enough to make it worth it.

A recent record high showed that wages were increased 25% which sounds great! I hope you enjoy making $3.75 instead of a generous (although you're likely getting paid closer to $2/hr) $3. Anything helps and that extra 75 cents does help, of course, but let's hope you find it worth it. And of course, most workers don't see an 25% increase. Assuming your strike was successful, you're likely going to see about 13% instead.

So after scraping by even more than you already were for about a week or so (assuming your strike actually works and doesn't drag into weeks or months), you're looking at a solid $3.39 per hour. Sure, that's less than half of the lowest federal minimum wage and it's far below the lowest cost of living (per hour) for a single individual which is about $13.80, but hey it's something right.

(None of this is to say you shouldn't be in a union and that strikes don't work, that'd be ridiculous. It's just to point out that this isn't a feasible option for a lot of people and acting like striking/unionizing is an easy option that magically fixing everything is beyond ridiculous.)

Now, let's move onto the actual point of "tips should be a nice bonus" and "we are not the problem."

Ideally, yes. Tips should be a nice bonus and customers shouldn't have to pay workers wages. In an ideal world, everybody would be getting paid a livable wage.

But this isn't an ideal world. You can't really treat tips as "a nice bonus" when they're not a nice bonus. And you can't really claim you aren't the problem when you're actively contributing to the problem.

You know these workers are being exploited and you're choosing to use their service anyway. This makes you a shitty person.

If you genuinely want to make a stand against that company's policies, you boycott the company. You don't continue exploiting workers by still going out.

If you can't afford to tip or don't want to tip then you can't afford to eat out at a service restaurant where workers are paid below minimum wage.

I'm very tired of people thinking "well they should pay you more!" absolves them of being a shitty person. Companies also shouldn't use child labor, but guess what? They do and if you're knowingly using a non-necessity company that uses child labor? You're a shitty person.

[vibetribetarotcoach]

🌈 Astro Tea Drop: Your Weekly Vibe Check 🌙

✨✨ Astro Tea Time: April 27–May 3 ✨✨

Hey bestie! 🌟 The cosmos is popping off this week, and you know I had to pull up with the astro tea. Expect a wild little cocktail of deep feels, bold moves, soft resets, and some spicy "are-you-sure-you're-ready-for-this" moments. Don't worry—I'm breaking it all down in a way even our most neuro-spicy brains can vibe with. Let’s get into it:

🔥 Major Cosmic Moments Serving Looks This Week

🌑 New Moon in Taurus (April 27) Big "slow down, ground yourself, and glow up" energy. This New Moon is handing you the aux cord and telling you to set intentions around stability, self-worth, and real comfort—not just the Pinterest board version. Think healing your money mindset, redefining your idea of home, and treating yourself like the rare gem you are.

💘 Venus Re-enters Aries (April 30) Dating apps about to get WILD. Venus sliding into Aries is pure "shoot your shot" energy. Expect to feel bolder in love, flirting with that cutie in your DMs, or even asking for what you need in your relationship (finally). No more passive "maybe they’ll notice me" vibes—this is "I am the prize" season, babe.

🌊 Venus Conjunct Neptune in Aries (May 2) Delulu but make it aesthetic. This is a magical, dreamy, ultra-romantic transit where everything feels like a Lana Del Rey music video. But listen... while the vibes are GORGEOUS, keep your feet on the ground. Red flags don’t become green just because they're in soft lighting. Enjoy the fantasy—but don't marry it without a background check.

🔄 Pluto Stations Retrograde in Aquarius (May 4) Time to do that deep soul-level spring cleaning. Pluto flipping retrograde is your official permission slip to rethink your power moves, detach from toxic patterns (including doomscrolling, toxic group chats, and ghosting cycles), and reimagine how you connect to community, technology, and your own inner rebel.

✨ Energy & Emotional Forecast: The Vibes Are...

This week is a lil' spicy-sweet mix.

The New Moon wants you to plant seeds for your soft life era (no crumbs left behind).

Venus in Aries is daring you to be loud and proud about what you want—in love, art, life, and even Insta captions.

Venus-Neptune is giving romantic K-Drama montage energy (enjoy it, just double-check reality).

Pluto Retrograde is whispering, "If it’s fake, it’s gotta go," into your third eye.

You might feel pulled between wanting to daydream your life away and burn it all down to rebuild better. Balance, bb, balance.

🌈 Spiritual Glow-Up Homework

Embrace New Beginnings: Start new habits, new mindsets, new Tinder bios if you have to. Anything that screams "new level unlocked."

Pursue Passion with Purpose: Go after what you want with your whole chest. No more half-assing your dreams or your standards.

Stay Grounded in Love: Fantasy is cute; accountability is cuter. Stay dreamy but don't ditch reality.

Reflect and Transform: What messy patterns are ready to be left on read? Pluto's retrograde says it’s time to heal it, not haul it around.

🪐 Final Bestie Reminder:

The stars are here to guide you, not to cage you. You still have full creative control over your story. So take a deep breath, set those intentions, and trust that you're building something beautiful—even when it feels messy.

You’re doing better than you think. I'm so proud of you. 🥹✨

Catch next week's astro tea dropping every Sunday! Until then, keep chasing your soft life, protecting your peace, and flirting with the universe. 💌

[gamerbot-22]

You Are Now Free to Move About the Cabin!

We went from five ficlets in a week to four lol. Also I would like to apologize for taking so long to get this postmortem out, especially when I mentioned I would get it done much sooner, but formatting on mobile + a much needed break = you're getting it now, lol--

Last week’s postmortem is here, and the tierlist is here!

Stuff Got Moved Again - Nothing worth mentioning though so this is just an acknowledgement.

Olm Soup for the Soul, A Tier - Definitely another procedural ficlet, but I like this one more than other's I've done purely because of my newfound love for Dungeon Meshi/Delicious in Dungeon. I also got to watch a lot of campfire cooking videos as research, which were all very peaceful lol.

Looking Out For You, A Tier - I'm. Letting some bias show, here. If I had written this ficlet on any other night, I would have given it a B Tier, citing a paragraph that seems to have gotten lost between describing Feixiao climbing the tree and her first speaking to Moze, as well as the vagueness of whatever happened in the meeting before this scene begins (I probably wouldn't have added much more detail but some more specifics would have been good, I think), but like... Ok I'm gonna get a little real here, there was An Incident at home when I wrote this. No one got hurt, but things were loud and chaotic and really unsure for a while, and honestly just projecting how I was feeling onto Moze and giving him some comfort in the form of Feixiao affirming that he's safe and where he belongs was just what I needed that night. I'd definitely make changes to it if I were to re-write this story, but as is, I think this ficlet is important.

To the Stars Above, A Tier - I was definitely still riding the waves of what happened the night before when I wrote this one, hence the sort of bittersweet, nostalgic tone, but I think this one came out really nicely. I know the point is that we as the players know so little about Baiheng and who she was, leaving us only to remember her through... Honestly just Jing Yuan and Jingliu (Blade I don't think ever mentions her himself and Dan Heng definitely doesn't.) I had to fill in some personality going off what's available and the dichotomy that showed up between her and Jingliu was really... nice. idk lol I don't have a lot of words for the feeling this ficlet evokes. Other than maybe "comfortable."

Read Between the Lines, A Tier - So I wrote this one in a haze the day before I left for vacation and in. The moment it felt like it made absolutely zero sense and was no good whatsoever, but after like a week away, it works! I liked doing some character analysis through Black Swan, I think having her be that observant and detached really fits her character. I was also really self indulgent with the tarot card at the end. For those who don't know tarot, the card was meant to bear similarity to the Rider-Waite-Smith version of The Moon, which classically represents the subconscious (Penacony itself) as well as your imagination getting the better of you (everyone being two layers deep, dream wise, with Sunday/Ena's fight serving as a distraction to reality.)

Seven Characters Left! - I'm probably going to do the next Postmortem after these 7 are done instead of on Sunday but I make no promises lol. This is a good scattering of characters, I think, in terms of Vibes and characterization, so I'm really excited to get these done!

[multi-lefaiye]

i remember.

hi. this is some venty ass personal writing that i had to get out of my system. i might delete this in a bit bc i feel weird talking about it, but i also know that i have to just. get this out. and y'know maybe if i try to make something artsy out of this, at least it's worth something.

this is a lot. i do not expect anyone to read it. i also do not expect anyone (especially those of you who are younger) to comfort me about any of this. y'all are not my therapists, and the onus is not on you to be there for me. i'm not upset about this right now and i honestly just... need to get this out.

content warnings: child abuse, physical abuse of a partner, neglect, a brief reference to child sexual abuse, drug use/addiction, emotiomal abuse/gaslighting

when i was about seven years old, my ex mom was almost murdered by her drug dealer/boyfriend, and i saw it happen. it sounds a lot more dramatic than it was. it also sounds fake, even to me.

i don't remember most of it, especially not as a single event. it comes in bits and pieces in my memory. for most of my life, i was convinced it was a dream, a very strangely specific recurring nightmare with no basis in reality.

what did it matter that hearing arguing in the next room is enough to have me trembling like a frightened chihuahua, frozen in place yet overwhelmed with the need to hide? that seeing anger, even not directed at me, is terrifying? that's just me being a coward.

then, when i was sixteen, my aunt called me in tears, apologies tumbling from her lips as she begged for my forgiveness for not intervening sooner. i asked her what she meant, and she said that she and the rest of my ex mom's family knew i was in a dangerous, abusive environment, and yet none of them did anything until my ex mom's boyfriend attacked her. they knew, but they didn't want to get involved or make a big deal about it.

they.

fucking.

knew.

i reexamined that strange nightmare, the bits and pieces i know vs the ones she explained to me as i silently processed the reality that the adults in my life knew something was wrong but didn't act on it. it's certainly easier said than done to react to a situation like that, and apparently my mom asked them not to intervene, but still.

like i said, i don't remember a lot of that day. what i do remember comes to me in flashes, scattered and broken puzzle pieces that don't quite fit into a cohesive narrative until i look closer. sometimes i worry that there isn't a single story there at all, and i'll never really know everything about my own trauma.

i remember the weeks leading up to that incident (what a clinical term, so detached). weeks of my mom drifting in and out of reality, not really being there to take care of me. i missed school a lot. i didn't eat much. i was left alone quite a bit. my mom's boyfriend sometimes took care of me when he stopped by. i wish i remembered his name. his face. anything more than his hands.

i remember losing a baby tooth one day while eating breakfast while my ex mom and her boyfriend talked in the next room. i looked at the baby tooth in my palm and felt a rush of giddy excitement--how grown up losing a baby tooth made me feel--and i ran to tell them right away. they congratulated me with thin smiles and tight voices, and they asked me to go play in my room and let the adults keep having an important talk. my ex mom had tears in her eyes. her boyfriend's hand was clenched into a fist where it rested on the table.

i remember someone putting a hand on me between my legs, and i remember being scared. i remember that it hurt. i didn't know where my ex mom was, but i remember being told to keep it a secret with a warm smile and a wink. just between us. i remember being given a cupcake and told to watch cartoons for a while.

i remember endless days of my ex mom lying listlessly in the house, pupils blown wide as she laughed about nothing. my friends' parents never seemed to like her, but they never told me why. i spent a lot of nights at my friends' houses, i think.

i remember hearing an argument. my ex mom was screaming and crying. her boyfriend was screaming back. i was scared, but i wanted to make sure my ex mom was okay. this was a common enough occurrence that i didn't think anything was wrong, but i wanted to give her a hug.

i remember walking into the room and seeing my ex mom on the floor, her hands shielding her head as her boyfriend loomed over her. there was broken glass on the floor and the furniture was in disarray. i think she was bleeding. i asked what was happening. her boyfriend told me to go back to bed.

i remember my ex mom telling me to call for help, to call my grandparents.

i remember him moving to grab me before i could do that, hands reaching like jagged talons to snatch up my skinny little arms in a bruising grip.

i remember running back to my room and closing the door with a slam, locking it immediately. he followed, but he didn't try to break in. there was no phone in my room, after all. no need to worry i'd call someone.

i remember curling up on my bed and staring at the TV, trying to focus on cartoons to drown out the pounding of the blood in my ears.

i remember there being more shouting, furious and terrified screams shaking me and the house to our foundations. the front door slammed, and it was quiet. everything was silent. hours later, i got the courage to leave my room, and i saw my ex mom and her boyfriend were gone.

my ex mom was missing for at least a day, maybe longer. she was found later, broken and battered and barely alive, and taken to a hospital. she was delirious from the pain and there were talks of sending her to rehab while she dealt with the withdrawals from the cocktail of drugs in her system. before they could, she called my aunt and told her where i was.

my aunt came to get me some time later. she packed me a suitcase and drove me to my grandparents' house. for a few weeks, i stayed with them. i remember waking up before dawn every day to drive two hours to school, just to be berated by teachers who were furious i was too exhausted to pay attention. i remember not knowing where my ex-mom was. i remember being so scared all the time.

at some point, my ex mom left rehab. later, i found out that there were talks of sending me to foster care. my ex mom didn't want that to happen, because then my dad would know what happened, so she was going to take me back.

my aunt came back to talk to my grandparents. she spoke to them in a low voice, one i couldn't hear from the other room, and said they needed to get me out of there. for once, they decided not to stand idly by.

i remember a long drive to my dad, a whole state away. i remember him holding me tight, trembling with rage as my aunt told him what happened. i remember being confused, because no one told me where my ex-mom was. my dad told me not to worry about that.

years and years later, i asked my ex mom about all of this. (i wasn't yet calling her my ex mom, but soon i realized the term fit very well.) i asked what happened, and i asked why no one protected me. protected either of us.

she told me i was a liar, that i was a self-righteous, attention-seeking moron looking for sympathy by pretending i was abused. i didn't know what i was talking about, and i had to get over myself and understand that the world didn't revolve around me, the perfect little victim who never did anything wrong. i was against her, just like my aunt, just like my grandparents just like my dad. she just hoped i'd never go through anything like what she did, so i'd never have to realize that no one was going to help me.

(i was a fucking child, i wanted to scream. the words were stuck in my throat. i was a fucking child.)

we haven't spoken in years now.

i don't know how to end this. i call her my ex mom, but she's still out there. still connected to me, if perhaps very distantly. i don't know where she is anymore.

i don't know where i am either sometimes.

[ofargentum]

@ofscientia said: “Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living.” - WoR?

He’s standing in the tiny closet that serves as their bathroom, knuckles white where dirt encrusted fingernails grip at the edge of the sink, clinging onto the cold porcelain as if it’s the only thing there left to ground him. The cold water from the leaky faucet (I’ll fix it, Iggy, I promise. There’s just never any time) fills the room with a sound that seems far too loud, and cornflower eyes watch with detached interest as the water swirls around an empty basin before falling uselessly down an empty drain. In the dark, everything looks dirty … covered in the shadows of filth that now plague everywhere he turns. It would be easy to flip on the light, to prove to himself that not everything is so damned, but he’s resolved long before now to learn how to live in the dark.

Instead, Iggy does it for him… flipping the switch with a familiarity and confidence that makes it easy to pretend that those first few weeks of fumbling and searching had never happened… and Prompto sighs, blinking against the dim glow that suddenly seems far too bright. His reflection in the mirror looks back at him with tired eyes, now haunted where once they had shone with laughter and life. The line of his profile is sharper, more man than boy, and he wonders what his partner thinks about it, wonders what images are conjured up while he traces the edge of the gunman’s cheekbones in the dark.

“Bad news, dude. I think my freckles might be fading.” The comment is meant as a joke, a light way of skirting the older man’s comment until he’s decided how to respond … but there’s a hint of sadness underneath. Over the years, they’ve had to say goodbye to so many things … and Prompto has watched with a sort of horrid fascination as the boy that Ignis has fallen in love with transformed into something he deemed unrecognizable. Would you still be here? If you could see me? The other man makes a sound that could either be disappointment at this newest revelation or irritated frustration at the way his words are so carefully avoided, and the blonde gives a short nod in answer though he knows it’s impossible for Ignis to see. He wants to turn the faucet off and walk out of the room as if nothing had happened, as if all that was left as a souvenir of his last hunt were aching muscles and temporary bruises… but the tears he’d fought against so gallantly have left a lingering trail in the grime, a searing brand of salt and water.

All those people ….

For a split second he feels a stab of jealousy over Ignis’ scarred eyes, an aching bitterness at the thought of his being spared rhetorical sight of empty buildings and the monsters that swirl around abandoned belongings and the shreds of clothing… but it’s chased by an overwhelming regret that sits like lead in the pit of his stomach and he fights the urge to apologize for thoughts better left unspoken. Instead, he takes a shaky breath, ribs groaning at the way air filled lungs press against them, and finds himself proud of the way his voice barely shakes when he speaks.

“I think that last bit is getting harder and harder, yeah?” The truth is a terrible confession. It falls between them like a boulder, heavy and dull, and Prompto finds that he immediately wants to take it back, wants to explain that he doesn’t mean their bodies pressed together in the dark isn’t something worth fighting for, doesn’t mean that the sound of the other man’s voice isn’t what keeps his heart beating. He moves to the doorway, unmindful of the sweat and dust that still covers his clothing, remnants of that new darkness that no amount of amber light can banish, and rests his head against his lover’s shoulder, forehead pressed the stalwart warmth that keeps him going. If anyone asks, he’d say he’s fighting for Noct, for hope…but the stark reality is that he’s fighting for the sound of his Iggy’s breathing, the timbre of his voice that soothes restless thought like a balm to the gunman’s soul while they lie together, legs tangled together in the dark . He’s fighting because of that deep conviction that a world without the ability to love Ignis Scientia isn’t a world worth living in, a world he won’t readily acquiesce to.

These secrets stay locked away and if Ignis can read them in the thump of his heart, he doesn’t say anything. Prompto grins against the hard ridge that is the older man’s collar bone, voice muffled as arms find their way around a familiar waist and tinged with a huff of laughter. “We should really work on your rallying speeches, Iggy. They work better when it’s just blind optimism, you know?”

[mccdreamys-writes]

smiles for miles – 25. my best colors

while the sky turned watercolor pink and gold and blue, and the stars all showed up one by one and we waited for the moon. - Ilse DeLange, Just Like The Moon

N O V E M B E R   1 2 T H   2 0 1 1

The house felt strangely empty without Alex's presence, the silence wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. I knew I had to get used to this solitude, a reality that came with her job—a part of her that I cherished deeply. She was more than just my partner; she was a lover of books, a seeker of justice, and most importantly, the woman who loved me.

Even though the house was quiet when she was away on a case, I held onto the belief that she would come back to me. It was like a mantra I repeated to myself in those lonely moments, a comforting reminder that helped me get through the weeks apart. And she always kept her promise, whether it was by my side in the hospital during my recovery or back home in what she affectionately called 'our house'.

But despite her efforts to make me feel at home in her space, there was still a sense of detachment lingering in the air—a reminder that this sanctuary belonged to her first, and I was just a guest. As I looked around the office she'd given me, I couldn't shake the feeling that it lacked the personal touch that would truly make it ours. "I need to do something about this," I mumbled to myself, making a silent vow to turn this space into a reflection of our life together.

The room felt pretty empty, with just the basics—a solid desk, a single chair, and a few unopened cases, each one hiding a story waiting to be told.

In the midst of this bare space, there was one thing that stood out—a photo sitting proudly on the desk. It was the same one Alex had given me back when I was in the hospital.

With a sigh, I sank into the chair, feeling the weight of my body sink into the worn upholstery with a soft thud. A quiet groan slipped out as I settled in, my back reminding me of the struggles I'd been through. Every move I made came with a dull ache, a reminder of how far I'd come in my recovery.

But despite the discomfort, I pushed through it. Today, I was determined to focus on the tasks ahead and the hope of better days to come, setting aside the pain to keep moving forward.

In my head, I held onto a simple but powerful belief: if I ignored something, it didn't bother me. This idea came from needing to deal with tough times. By not paying attention to the problems in front of me, I felt better thinking they weren't there.

For example, whenever my body hurt, I'd just pretend it didn't.

Living in Washington, I faced a strange situation. All my stuff, the things that meant a lot to me and held memories, were back in Alabama. We kept putting off going to get them because of work. So, they stayed far away, out of reach.

Without my things, I felt lost in the big city. Getting new stuff seemed overwhelming. I didn't know where to start. I wasn't used to shopping or figuring out what I needed. It was like being in a maze with no map.

Adding to my problem was not having a car, which was a big gap in my new life. Thinking about dragging heavy stuff through the busy streets, relying on taxis that never seemed to be where you needed them, just didn't seem worth the hassle.

Even though the internet made everything super easy, I still wasn't into it. Online shopping felt cold and distant to me. I guess I'm old-fashioned, preferring the real-world experience. There's something special about going into a cozy shop, smelling the old books, and feeling the pages between your fingers. It takes me back and makes me appreciate the simple things.

Being stuck in an empty house, the loneliness bouncing off the walls, made me really think. This place didn't feel like home without all my familiar stuff. It was like an empty shell, lacking the warmth and life that makes a home feel alive.

In the heavy quiet around me, I dug deep into my thoughts, finding comfort in reflecting on myself. What made me who I am? What kept me feeling like me in this lonely place?

As I pondered these big questions, one word stood out: poetry. It was like the backbone of who I was, woven into the very fabric of my being. Poetry, with its vivid pictures and rhythmic words, showed me my inner thoughts and gave me hope when things seemed dark.

In the big picture of my life, poetry was the colorful thread that tied together all my different experiences, making them into a story of finding myself and expressing who I am. It was the language I used to understand emotions, turning the tricky parts of being human into beautiful verses that meant something deep.

Filled with determination, I walked into Alex's office, the sound of my steps bouncing off the empty walls. In that familiar place, I looked for what I needed to make my own workspace feel alive.

I ran my hands over shelves and drawers, feeling the excitement build up inside me. Among the paint tubes and brushes scattered around, I saw the potential to turn my dull office into a creative haven.

I picked out what I needed—fresh paper, colorful paints, and a variety of brushes ready to bring my imagination to life. With each item carefully chosen, I set out to express myself, turning my office into a reflection of who I am.

Heading back to my own space, loaded with my tools, I felt powerful. No longer stuck in emptiness and loneliness, I was ready to turn the blank canvas of my office into something vibrant and full of life.

For three whole hours, I was completely absorbed in a world of colors and words. Every brushstroke and scribble was like a piece of my creativity unfolding. Time seemed to stretch on endlessly as I wrestled with turning the blank canvas in front of me into a mirror of my innermost feelings.

At first, I was nervous, filled with doubts about whether I could really pull it off. But as time went on, I let myself go with the flow of creativity. I trusted my instincts to guide me through the vast emptiness of the blank page.

After the first hour passed, I realized something important: I wasn't just an artist. What I was, was a storyteller. My art wasn't about pretty pictures; it was a way to tell stories and share emotions. This realization set me free from the chains of self-doubt and perfectionism that had been holding me back at the start.

Feeling free like never before, I let my hand glide across the paper, each mark showing the realness of my emotions. In that moment of letting go, creating became my refuge. Every stroke and scribble told a story of the thoughts and feelings swirling inside me.

As the last hour ticked away, I took a step back to look at what I'd made—a colorful collage of words and images that spoke volumes about who I was. Even though it wasn't perfect, each brushstroke and pen stroke showed how strong and expressive humans can be.

In the quiet of my makeshift studio, I worked tirelessly on the canvas, lost in the rhythm of colors and the secrets of my soul. Time seemed to slip away as I poured myself into my creation, barely noticing how long I'd been at it.

As I put the final touches on my creation, a feeling of contentment washed over me. It was the result of hours spent completely absorbed in making something special. But just as I stepped back to take it all in, the quiet of the room was shattered by a sudden presence behind me.

I jumped, my heart racing, and spun around to see someone standing there. The unexpected appearance caught me off guard, making me feel like I'd stepped into a strange dream where reality and imagination blurred together.

In my surprise, I gripped the paintbrush tightly, ready to defend myself against this unexpected visitor. For a split second, I even thought about using the paint as a weapon, a primitive response fueled by fear and shock.

But when I looked into Alex's eyes, a wave of relief washed over me, melting away the tension in my body. I sheepishly lowered the paintbrush, feeling a flush of embarrassment at my overreaction.

With a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, Alex couldn't help but laugh at my joke about self-defense. "I should teach you some methods of self-defense," she teased, her laughter filling the room.

I raised an eyebrow in playful doubt, a smile spreading across my face. "My charm is my weapon," I quipped, giving her a wink, knowing it would get a reaction.

Her smirk grew as she came closer, moving with a fluid grace. With a gentle touch, she reached up and wiped a speck of paint from my cheek, leaving a warm sensation in its wake. "Oh absolutely," she murmured softly, her voice sending a shiver down my spine.

As she leaned in, her breath mingling with mine, it felt like everything else faded away, leaving just the two of us in our own little world. With a gentle nudge of her nose against mine, she said everything without saying a word.

"Welcome back," I murmured, barely louder than a whisper as I closed the distance between us.

In that brief moment, it was like time stood still as our lips met in a soft, tender kiss. The feeling of her tongue tracing the outline of my lips sent a thrill through me, sparking a strong desire between us.

Her hands moved with eagerness, tracing the lines of my face and tangling in my hair as if she wanted to hold onto me tight. It was like she wanted to pull me even closer, as if being near me could satisfy the hunger she felt.

Every little thing felt more intense when she was close, from the sweet taste of her lips to the scent that surrounded us like a cozy blanket. Each lingering kiss sparked a hunger inside me, a strong desire that raced through my veins. It was like every part of me was tuned into her touch, every nerve alive with the excitement of being near her.

In that moment, I was completely lost in my love for her. I was captivated by how she made me feel, how good she tasted, how she stirred my senses and captured my heart. I treasured every little thing about her, from the way she touched me to the essence of who she was.

When she let go, I found myself gasping for air, my lungs craving oxygen like they'd been starved. Even though I was still buzzing from her touch, I managed to whisper, "Yeah, welcome back."

Her forehead rested against mine, closing the tiny gap between us. I felt her warm breath mixing with mine, a gentle touch that said more than words ever could. A soft smile played on her lips, filled with the same warmth I felt inside. "I'm so glad to be home," she whispered, her words a quiet melody that filled the space between us with contentment.

As Alex's eyes scanned over me, pausing on the colorful smudges splattered across my face, I could sense her curiosity bubbling just beneath the surface of her question. It felt like she wasn't just asking out of politeness; she genuinely wanted to dig deeper, to uncover the story behind my recent creative pursuits.

"What have you been doing?" she inquired.

In that moment, a realization hit me like a bolt of lightning. The painting I'd poured my heart and soul into, the canvas that held all my emotions and dreams, wasn't just mine anymore. It belonged to her now.

Though the painting was small, it held a world of emotion and meaning beyond its size. It seemed too small to contain the depth of feelings it was meant to represent—a reminder of the intricate nature of human emotions and the intangible essence of love.

Though the painting was small, it had taken up so much of my time and energy. I'd layered on paint after paint, each stroke a piece of my heart poured onto the canvas.

But now, as I held it, doubt started to creep in. Had I really put enough of myself into it? Had I managed to capture even a fraction of the love I felt, or had I fallen short?

Pushing those thoughts aside, I turned to Alex, offering her the painting with a hesitant smile. "It's not much," I began, my voice tinged with self-deprecation, "but it's yours."

I watched her closely, waiting for her reaction. Would she be disappointed? Would she feel let down? But to my relief, her eyes lit up with warmth, reflecting the love I felt for her. She reached out to take the painting, her fingers brushing lightly against the surface.

"Mine?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "Really?."

With a small nod, I confirmed, "Yeah."

As I watched a single tear roll down her cheek, a playful grin spread across my face. "Is it so bad?" I teased, injecting a bit of humor into my words.

She shook her head, chuckling softly, her eyes shining with both amusement and love. "No, love," she replied, her voice filled with genuine warmth, "this is the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

Her use of the word 'love' caught me off guard, sending a rush of excitement through me. It was a term she hadn't used before, and its unexpectedness made my heart flutter.

Setting the painting aside, she pulled me into a tight hug, wrapping me in her warmth and affection. With each kiss, she conveyed a thousand emotions, each one a testament to her love for me. When the kisses eventually stopped, leaving a lingering warmth behind, I couldn't help but laugh at her display of affection.

"You seem to enjoy kissing me quite a bit," I teased, a grin tugging at my lips.

With one last passionate kiss, she looked at me with unwavering sincerity. "It's my favorite thing in the world," she confessed.

[angeldcgs]

fern couldn't help but wonder just where, if ever, arlo found relief. he was so hard on himself, so sure of his own inadequacy that he closed himself off from potential pleasure before he could even give it a chance, his only hobbies revolving around escapism. it seemed that, if given the chance, he'd disconnect from his body— and reality— entirely, which made sense why the hypnotherapy seemed to be so effective at first. she'd given him the opportunity to let go of his insecurities and shame, and just exist for once, which was perfect up until it wasn't. in the weeks since then, fern had spent countless hours recounting every single thing she'd said to him while he was under, critiquing her word choice and chiding herself for being so naive— had she really been surprised by the outcome when she'd practically led him into the trap? she had to have been aware of the suggestive nature of her questioning, the effect that her innocent touch would have on him, and she should've prevented this whole mess from occurring. then again, that session had felt like a breakthrough. they'd touched upon something fern didn't think he'd ever bring up on his own, something that was clearly a big issue in his life and would need to be addressed at some point; what better time than now? her brows pinched sympathetically as arlo picked up on the direction of their conversation and immediately clammed up, the shift in his body language like night and day. initially, when faced with a patient beginning to shut down on her, she'd backtrack to a safer topic to get them to warm up to her again, but in this case, she felt it necessary to keep applying gentle pressure. hopefully he wouldn't crack and splinter under the weight, but instead gently pop open, allowing the contents of his mangled psyche to spill out onto the coffee table between them for her to sort through and organize. "it's ok, we don't have to talk about anything you're uncomfortable with," she assured him, though it wasn't entirely true. no progress would be made unless she pushed him out of his comfort zone— change was uncomfortable, painful, even. still, she wanted to let him know he had an out if he absolutely couldn't stand telling her what she wanted to know. "i know it's a sensitive topic for you, but i think it's important we revisit it, if that's alright with you. and feel free to let me know if it gets to be too much, you can always change your mind." setting her notebook aside and carefully sliding her reading glasses off her face, she directed her full attention arlo's way, not to intimidate, but to show that she wasn't just a detached observer in his journey to mental wellness, she was an active participant. for the briefest moment, he was able to muster up the courage to glance up at her, and her responding smile was reassuring, urging him to continue. "what makes it stressful, do you think? does it make you feel bad to imagine someone else in an arousing sort of situation, or is it the physical sensation itself you don't like? does it feel sort of, like... a violation, is that it?" to be so mentally beaten down throughout his life that he couldn't even enjoy touching himself without feeling like some sort of perverse creature or a sexual failure was no way to live— he needed something. as silly, or backwards, or misguided as it might seem, fern felt as though addressing his issues with intimacy would not only give him an outlet for stress relief, it might boost his self worth as well.

arlo had always found it easier to make a joke out of himself than to actually put in the effort to change his self-depreciation into something actually useful. as a kid he'd always been the butt of the joke, the runt of the litter and easy pickings for anyone in his family who was in the mood to start a fight- usually his sister or father, though he'd managed to patch up his relationship with paloma before things got too messy. he didn't think he was very attractive, nor was he particularly smart or interesting to talk to, he was trying to be kinder to himself but it was difficult to do so when it felt like he had to actively look past his flaws or pretend as though they weren't there. fern saw goodness in him though, and that meant something, he couldn't have been destined for complete failure if she thought he was worth kindness, even if he was paying her to care about him. his hands rested innocently on his lap, his fingers fiddling absentmindedly with each other as he continued to listen to fern, his attention fully trained on her until he saw where the conversation was going and his gaze suddenly dropped. it wasn't that he hadn't touched himself since that session, he was a young man and he couldn't hold off that long without release even if he really wanted to, but whatever problems he'd already had with masturbation had only continued, even grown larger after that humiliation. when he got off now, he did so as quickly as possible and forced himself to not let his mind wander. he wouldn't think about anything real, any desires or fantasies he might have, he'd pick some popular video on pornhub, probably the first one he saw and act as though it were some menial task he had to get out of the way before he could continue with his day. no pleasure came with it, especially since he tried to take as long as he could between each instance to try and limit the possibility of feeling any more shame than he already did. his face grew red with embarrassment but he tried to hold himself steady and not squirm in his seat like he usually would have when faced with something that spooked him. the last thing he wanted to do was talk to fern about his masturbation habits again, the only reason he'd been able to do so before was because of the hypnosis and even then, that turned out worse than he could have ever imagined. "i- uh, i'm not sure we should be..." she was trying to help him, arlo knew that. more memories of what they'd spoken about while he'd been under had come to him in the following days and despite the guilt he couldn't stop himself from feeling, he couldn't deny that she had stumbled upon what was obviously a huge problem for him and one he struggled to talk about. it was those subjects that they had come to have the biggest breakthroughs with, like when he'd gotten comfortable enough to speak about his childhood, the conversations that were most uncomfortable to have often became the most valuable. still, he couldn't see how pleasuring himself was something that she could help him with. "i don't really- it's not something i really do much." he forced himself to say, his eyes flickered back up to her face for a moment to catch her gaze still trained on him before he tore his away again and focused it down onto his lap. "it's just- just stressful for me. i think i'm better off without all of that."

[undiscovered-horizon]

Can i ask for a dark! Peter Parker that is super clingy?

[TW: mentions of suicide, self-harm, unhealthy relationships, involuntary drug consumption]

>>500 followers special!<<

Clingy Dark!Peter Parker

It's exam season and I'm panicking how's life going for yall

Clingy Peter is like a koala bear

Just hangs on to you and doesn't let go

Except that koala bear is completely unhinged, so more like a drop bear really

Two weeks into the relationship he was ready to get married tbh

Has he drugged you to cuddle you a little longer? Most definitely

More than once probably, rip your liver

Would deliberately hurt himself to have your attention

"Pretends" to be a danger to himself

(he already is, just tends to embellish it with very dramatic acting)

"I don't want to hurt myself when you're around"

Definitely has threatened/hinted that he would kill himself as a last resort to have you stay with him -> not necessarily in a break-up situation, even a "it's late and I should go home" situation

Fake crying/meltdown/breakdown so you hug him

"No, no, no, don't leave me!"

You were just going to the store

If you pay too much attention to someone else, even a relative, he goes through a legitimate depressive episode

If he doesn't have your undivided attention he will make up a wild story to have you pity love him

His hand is constantly on or around you

Gets fidgety and irritable when you're not around

Camps out outside the bathrooms waiting for you but only because you started a fight once about a grown man going into the women's restroom

Whatever you're doing, wherever you're going, he's coming with you

Your friends regularly point out how unhealthy that is, so Peter gets quietly angry: he can't have you believe them

He might or might not have bludgeoned some of them into a near-death state

The blood on him is because he hurt himself and he needs your attention...right?

If you manage to hang out on your own or with someone, Peter's stalking you without a doubt

If you don't text/call him back right away, he starts to genuinely panic

Scares away any man you know (the ancient art of threats, blackmailing and caving someone's face in), maybe except for a male parental figure if you have one - it would be very counter-productive to have your parents/guardians wary of him

I feel like he would easily worm his way into your mother's/female parental figure's heart with that sheepish look he has

Asks if you still love him like three times a day at least

Stalks your social media and gets upset at any mention/picture that involves someone else

Peter's thoughts would spiral if you as much as don't give him a forehead kiss first thing in the morning

For him it's an immediate sign you're probably angry or hate him and that's he's not good enough and you love someone else and-

No, you're just still sleepy and detached from reality

If you're anything but chipper he's preparing for you to confess your hatred towards him, which, let's be honest, is not going to happen anytime soon

His hugs crush bones and suffocate, Peter's like a scared toddler holding a teddy bear

Which is a pretty good analogy, really: he's terrified of you leaving him (in any sense of the word) and he's convinced that aside from you there is nothing worth living for

If you're just doing some chores around the house, he's either helping you or following you around

You could be cooking or ironing and he's just standing there, back hugging you silently

Because of his clearly unstable emotional state, you developed a habit of frequently telling him you love him and asking him if he's okay

Peter's a huge fan of that

You can barely talk to anyone without him getting upset, so he's easily alienating you from your social circles

_______

@restingbitchsblog

[thetoffeefox]

One Life Is Never Long Enough. For Us.

I wrote this when it was so slow at work to the point that I was able to listen to music and the song One Life by Dermot Kennedy came on and that was it. This was what was born from it.

Fear. She is no stranger to it. Fear is something Fade has known for many of years now. It is something that she has induced in others. The Turkish woman has even taken pleasure in it as to not feel the feeling of being so powerless and small. Right now though the fear that dances on her skin and is flowing in her veins was her own. At some point in time the woman had long ago thought she no longer had the ability to feel her own fear, as the fear of others was always much more prevalent and potent in her mind and tingling at her senses. Before she obtained her abilities fear...Her own fear was something she has never dealt with well and it seemed to ring true after all this time. It was pounding on her just like the rough sweeping undercurrent that was sweeping her away from the only that has mattered to her after all this time. After all this pain the only person that made her  nightmares into dreams. The one person who some how had the ability with one single touch to soothe The Nightmare’s whispers. She made her feel as if her life was something worth living for.

So the fear of not being able to save her was screaming louder than anything she has felt in quite some time. Along with it was the regret of what has transpired these past few months. The regret of telling her that drunk summer night in Istanbul in the night club and hotel room was nothing to her, that itt was simply a fun night. Regret of lying to her about how she felt and coldly rejecting her. Making sure to rub salt in old wounds and insecurities, just to insure that she herself would not have to worry about being her. Weeks...Months of detached and even aggressive behavior to push her farther and father away flashing in her mind along with each wince and hurt look the blonde haired woman gave her. It bubbles to the point that tears sting her eyes making it that much harder to keep her eyes open in these ice waters. Bubbling to where she lets out a muffled scream of sheer rage and agony causing several gulps of water to force it’s way down her throat. One that seemed to help her further push herself beyond her limits as one of her hands stretch out her own seize latching onto her making her tense as the whispers fill her mind. Fight harder. Ignore it!! as more tendrils jet out the female seems to force them towards the unconscious woman. Their speed and precision was able to best the current allowing Fade to pull her into her arms. Wrapping around her like a vice refusing to let go as if her own life depended on it. Life...The reality sets in as she looks up at the surface that was so far above her. Body twitching and aching from exhaustion, the sensation of floating causing her slowly sink.

Looking down at the woman she coveted so dearly her mouth involuntarily opens as her eyes seem to get heavier and heavier. I can’t save her....I can’t save us...Is...Is that ok? Is it ok to die like this?...Yes...Even if she doesn’t know the truth at least I have her in my arms. So she sinks accepting the black icy void that she always suspected would one day claim her way before one would consider it to be her time.