DEAR READER
Claire Keane
Cosmic Funnies
Love Begins
pixel skylines
★
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
todays bird
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
trying on a metaphor
noise dept.
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Discoholic 🪩
Keni
we're not kids anymore.
Kaledo Art
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Libya
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
@siicksin
suffering is nigh, drawing to me – calling me the one, i'm the white light ; beautiful, finite.
#𝖘𝖎𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖘𝖎𝖓 — independent original horror character dissected by morgue (27, she/her). dead dove, do not eat. triggering and usfw content will be tagged sparingly. tread with caution. a study in power and control, not knowing when enough is enough, and the madness in expecting perfection.
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sometimes all a tired, overworked man needs to fix him is for you to crawl into his lap and kiss all over his face while you sink yourself down on his cock
fatima aamer bilal, from we were put on this earth desperate, hungry and willing.
[text id: you get nervous when someone holds your hand, you wonder if they can feel the rot.]
BILL SKARSGÅRD as MICKEY Villains (2019) Dir. Dan Berk, Robert Olsen
The Devil All The Time (2020) dir. Antonio Campos
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The blood moon is framed by the statues of Hera and Apollo in Athens, 27 July 2018 (x)
Louise Glück, from “Autumn.”
[Text ID: “How heavy my mind is, filled with the past. Is there enough room for the world to penetrate? It must go somewhere, it cannot simply sit on the surface—”]
Sweet, gentle, passionate kissing while you're collared, tied up and dressed in nothing but cute lingerie and I'm fully clothed and pulling you in close and holding you tight and grinding my knee between your thighs
• You're not fine. Don't lie to me, I can read your vitals from here. ( ada )
The laboratory had long since surrendered to midnight. Darkness pressed itself against the reinforced windows, transforming the world beyond into an endless black reflection of fluorescent lights and stainless steel. The monitors scattered throughout the room painted everything in shades of pale blue and sickly green, their glow catching against stacks of research notes that had accumulated like drifts of snow around Leon's workstation. Coffee sat untouched beside him, long gone cold. The screen above him displayed rows of data he had already read three times and retained none of. Exhaustion had become a language his body spoke fluently.
A tremor lingered in his hand as he reached for a pen. Subtle enough that most people would miss it. The muscles along his jaw remained clenched tight enough to ache. Somewhere beneath his ribs, his pulse hammered an uneven rhythm that he subbornly refused to acknowledge. He had spent years becoming an expert in observation. That expertise rarely extended to himself. The sound of a voice cut through the silence. Not loudly, not accusatory, merely certain. The kind of certainty that irritated him precisely because it was earned.
Leon closed his eyes for a moment. Of all the people in the world, Ada Wong was perhaps the last person he wanted noticing the cracks. She had built an entire life around recognizing the weaknesses in others. She collected them the way some people collect favors. Catalogued them. Remembered them. Used them when necessary. The problem was that she was very rarely wrong. A quiet exhale escaped him as he leaned back in his chair. The metal frame protested beneath his weight with a low creak. Fingers drifted toward the bridge of his nose, pinching there as though pressure alone might ward off the headache threatening to split his skull.
When he finally looked up, his gaze found her standing across the room. Red against steel. Composed where he was fraying. A faint, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Most people have the courtesy to pretend they believe me.” His Dutch accent surfaced more heavily beneath the fatigue, softening certain consonants despite himself. The attempt at levity died almost immediately because she was right. The monitors behind him continued their relentless procession of numbers. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen saturation. Data gathered from sensors he had forgotten were still attached beneath the sleeve of his shirt after a seventy-two-hour stretch of work. Evidence. Objective and impossible to argue with.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the secured observation room at the far end of the laboratory, toward the reinforced door, toward the reason he had not slept. Toward the reason he would not. Something complicated passed across his expression before disappearing beneath practiced restraint. “I am functioning,” Leon corrected quietly, because the distinction felt important. It was not as if it were inherently true. It was merely the closest thing to the truth he could offer. His hands folded together atop the cluttered desk, fingers interlacing enough for the knuckles to pale. For a moment, he simply studied her. The woman who somehow continued appearing in the middle of his disasters. The woman who looked at him as though she could dissect every lie before he finished constructing it. His shoulders sagged by a fraction, a microscopic surrender. “So,” the word emerged roughly, “if I am not fine, Doctor Wong..” His eyes lifted fully to hers. “What is your diagnosis?”
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kisses while pulling them into your lap.
The rain had settled into a steady rhythm against the windows, soft enough to be soothing and persistent enough to feel woven into the fabric of the evening. It turned the glass into watercolor, blurring the lights beyond Leon's property into smudges of gold and silver that seemed to float against the darkness. His home had always been a quiet place, but tonight the silence felt different. Less like solitude. More like a sanctuary. Perhaps that difference had everything to do with Bonnie.
Leon had spent years cultivating distance. He understood the architecture of loneliness so thoroughly that it had become part of him, built into the foundation alongside old grief and habits he no longer questioned. His house reflected that reality. Every room served a purpose. Every object occupied its place. There was comfort in order, in predictability, in knowing exactly where everything belonged. Yet Bonnie had walked through the front door and somehow disrupted the equilibrium without touching a thing.
She sat beside him now, illuminated by warm lamplight that softened the edges of her features and turned her curls into something almost ethereal. The sight of her settled beneath his roof stirred something uncomfortable and wonderful in equal measure. It reminded him that homes were not defined by walls, or furniture, or even years spent occupying the same space. They were defined by the people who breathed life into them. The revelation made his chest ache.
Leon found himself studying her the way he always did when she was not looking directly at him. His gaze followed the curve of her smile, the thoughtful tilt of her head, the quiet strength hidden beneath the exhaustion she carried so carefully. Bonnie possessed a remarkable capacity for love. He had seen it in the way she spoke about others, in the sacrifices she made without expectation of reward, in the wounds she willingly carried if it meant sparing someone else from pain. It was just as beautiful as it was heartbreaking, because people like Bonnie rarely extended that very same kindness toward themselves.
His hand found hers gradually, fingers brushing against hers before intertwining. The contact felt natural now in a way that still managed to surprise him. There had been a time when Leon could not imagine reaching for another person simply because he wanted to. Affection had become something so dangerous after so much loss. Something sharp enough to cut, yet Bonnie made him forget caution with alarming consistency. A faint smile touched his mouth as he looked down at their joined hands. “You have made a habit of dismantling my defenses,” he murmured, the subtle cadence of his Dutch accent becoming more pronounced beneath the warmth of the moment. “I spent years building them, you know.” There was amusement in his voice, but there was truth there, too.
His thumb swept gently across her knuckles before his gaze lifted to meet hers again. Whatever he intended to say next disappeared entirely. The space between them seemed to shrink of its own accord. Leon felt the anticipation of it settle beneath his ribs, quiet and profound. He had kissed people before. He had loved before. Yet there was something uniquely terrifying about Bonnie, because she had arrived unexpectedly, bypassing every safeguard he possessed and taking root somewhere deep enough to matter. Perhaps that was why he hesitated. Not from uncertainty, but from reverence. When he finally leaned forward, it was with the care one might use when approaching something precious.
The kiss itself was gentle, carrying all the tenderness he struggled to articulate aloud. His hand rose instinctively to cradle the side of her face, fingers disappearing into the softness of her curls. The warmth of her against him felt almost unreal, like sunlight after an endless winter. For a brief moment, the years of grief, guilt, and exhaustion that followed him everywhere seemed to loosen their grip. The world narrowed until there was only Bonnie. Only the rain. Only the quiet certainty that this was a moment he would commit to memory. When they finally separated, Leon remained close enough to feel her breath against his skin. His eyes searched hers, and for once, there was nothing guarded in his expression. There was no careful distance, no practiced restraint. All that was left was affection and wonder.
A soft laugh escaped him when he realized just how thoroughly she had undone him. His arm slipped around her waist before he could overthink the gesture, and with a gentle pull, he guided her into his lap. The movement felt effortless, as though she had belonged there. As though the space upon his lap had been waiting for her all along. Bonnie settled against him, and Leon felt something inside his chest soften in response. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her close while the storm continued its quiet song beyond the windows. The intimacy of the moment had little to do with desire and everything to do with comfort. After years of feeling like a man stranded somewhere between survival and existence, he found himself reluctant to let go of this simple closeness.
His forehead came to rest against hers, and he closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself the rare luxury of peace. “I spent a very long time convincing myself that I was better off alone,” he said softly, a smile lingering in the words. “You arrived and made that belief increasingly difficult to defend." The confession settled between them gently, wrapped up in the warmth of the room and the distant sound of the rain. Leon, for once, did not feel haunted by the future or burdened by the past. He felt content to exist exactly where he was, with Bonnie in his arms and the quiet understanding that some people may enter his life so unexpectedly that they almost feel like fate.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ··· a collection of medical tension, hospital corridors, life & death stakes sentence starters. genre: medical drama, hurt and comfort, high stakes.
• You shouldn't be working this shift—you're running on fumes. • I need you to trust me right now, okay? Can you do that? • When was the last time you actually slept? • Your hands are shaking. Let me take over. • I can't lose another patient today. I can't. • You're not fine. Don't lie to me, I can read your vitals from here. • We did everything we could. Sometimes that's not enough. • I'm calling it. Time of death— • No, no, no. Come on. Stay with me. • You need to step back. You're too close to this case. • I saw what happened in there. Are you okay? • The family's asking for you. I think you should talk to them. • How long have you been covering up these symptoms? • I don't know how to tell them their kid didn't make it. • Your shift ended three hours ago. Go home. • I've never seen you panic like that before. • We have a code blue! • You can't save everyone. You know that, right? • I need two units of O-neg! • Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? • I found you passed out in the supply closet. • You remember that patient from six months ago? They're back. • I think I'm having a panic attack. • Congratulations, Doctor. First solo surgery, right? • The board's asking questions about what happened during that code. • I can't feel my hands anymore. • Someone needs to tell the attending they made the wrong call. • I'm not supposed to be treating family, but here we are. • Your patient in bed seven? That's my sister. • They're crashing—get the crash cart! • I need you to walk me through what went wrong. • You stayed with them. All night. Why? • I haven't eaten in fourteen hours and I'm starting to see double. • The transplant list just got longer and our donor didn't make it. • You can't keep taking the hard cases. It's killing you. • I heard you crying in the stairwell. • This is exactly the kind of case that ended your last relationship. • Your ex just got admitted to our floor. • I'm sorry, there's nothing more we can do. It's palliative now. • You need to scrub out. Now. • I pulled a double and now I can't remember if I already gave that medication. • The family wants to sue. They're naming you specifically. • I know we said no relationships between attendings and residents, but— • You operated on them for eleven hours straight. • I'm not cleared to come back yet, but I'm here anyway. • Whose blood is that on your coat? • The on-call room is not for sleeping anymore, apparently. • You've been charting for three hours. Go take a break. • I made a mistake in there. A big one. • Your first loss always hits different, doesn't it? • They left AMA and now they're back, worse than before.
— Jean-Paul Sartre, from No Exit (via lunamonchtuna)
he has beautiful doe eyes and im like a ford f-150 going 80mph in the middle of the night
sender buys receiver a drink at a bar . @siicksin ft. april.
THE DRINK IS UNAPOLOGETICALLY PINK; fingers curl around it with zero ounce of shame. horrors stitched together with fine little lines warp and ravage memories that remain locked up remarkably tight. though, it's been a trouble to keep them buried when she sees things no human should have to see before breakfast. a turn toward the bartender's answer of where the daiquiri came from, and her eyes track, nearly widening out of her head when she spots the elusive surgeon. at least that's what all the other nurses whisper about when he passes through the emergency and makes all the other on-call departments seem obsolete. ❛ doctor grey -- ❜ april musters up a smile wrought from surprise and embarrassment, for it dappled between each freckle with a ruddy glow.
she takes a sip, a pause in consciousness to keep from staring or attempting to decipher why. because people don't usually buy drinks for april in an uncomplicated way. there is always something attached to it, an expectation or look lingering too long or, a transaction laid out on the bartop. BUT SHE COULDN'T FIGURE OUT THIS MAN OUTSIDE HER AWE OF HIS WORK. it's why she'd stepped outside the unseen hierarchy of her department when her superior wouldn't listen. ❛ if this is for scrubbing in on the chest trauma, i think it should be the other way around. ❜ she hadn't heard the end of it from her attendant. something muttered about insubordination in front of her colleagues revealed more about his ego than anything else. ❛ will you let me get the next one? if you're having another one. ❜
Leon does not answer immediately. It was not as if he did not hear her, because he has, every single word from her mouth, but because he is watching the way the pink drink catches the bar's low light when she moves it, as though someone has dropped a neon memory into her hands and expected it not to glow. The glass looks almost absurd in her grip, too playful for a place where he usually only associates color with antiseptic blues and the dull chrome of operating rooms. When he finally speaks, his voice carries that measured calm it always does on the floor, though here it softens at the edges, less clipped and less guarded. The faint trace of his Dutch accent slips through more easily while he's off-duty, like something loosening its tie.
“It was not a transaction,” he says, gaze still on her for a moment too long to be purely professional, then briefly down to the drink as if to correct its presence. “The chest trauma was not yours to fight for. You were already in the room when most people would have hesitated to step in at all.” He leans a fraction against the bar, not crowding her, but close enough that the noise of the place seems to fall away in the narrow space between them. There is something unhurried about him here, something that does not belong to the sharp edges of trauma bays and overhead paging systems. “I bought it because I could,” he adds, almost mildly, though there is a thread of honesty in it that he does not bother to disguise. “And because you looked like you could use something that was not fluorescent lighting and someone shouting orders at you.” At that, his mouth tilts, not quite a smile but something approaching one. Restrained as ever, as if he is still deciding where he is allowed it. His eyes return to hers properly now, studying rather than assessing, and that is where the difference lies. “As for the next one,” he continues, voice lower, steadier, “you do not owe me anything for doing my job well. I would prefer if it did not become a currency between us.” A pause, brief but deliberate. “And April,” he says her name like he is testing its weight outside of a hospital corridor, letting it settle differently here. “You did not need permission to be in that room. You were already where you were needed.”
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sorry i yap in every reply imaginable i love leon ivan grey and i will not shut up about his inner thoughts ever
chase HATED how quickly this guy seemed to get under his skin. not in a bad way, exactly. dr. grey wasn't being a dick. wasn't talking down to him. wasn't giving him that disappointed look coaches used to give him when he was a teenager and halfway to getting himself arrested. if anything, the guy sounded CURIOUS, and somehow that was worse. curiosity meant paying attention. curiosity meant noticing things chase usually got away with hiding. which immediately raised a deeply uncomfortable question of: was i always this obvious? his mouth twisted slightly before he huffed out a laugh and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “y'know, most doctors ask me where it hurts and tell me not to do anything stupid for six weeks.” his eyes narrowed slightly at leon. “you got me feelin' like i'm accidentally in therapy.” the joke bought him about three seconds. then leon asked if he was worried about getting back on the ice, and chase's grin faltered before he could stop it. only for a second. BARELY a second. but apparently that was all this guy needed. “nah.” the answer came too fast. he heard it himself. immediately hated it. “i mean—” a sigh. “okay, that's not true.” he shifted his weight, shoulder bumping lightly against the exam table behind him. “i'm worried about gettin' back on the ice and finding out i HESITATE.” that one sat heavier than he expected. his gaze drifted toward the window for a moment. hockey had pulled him out of a life that would've swallowed him whole. every coach, every scout, and every teammate who'd taken a chance on him had given him ANOTHER exit ramp. the game was the one thing he'd always trusted. the one thing that made sense when everything else didn't. if he started second-guessing himself out there, what did that even leave him with? the thought made his stomach turn. “you don't survive very long in this league if you're scared of gettin' hit,” he muttered. “and you definitely don't survive if you're thinking about getting hurt EVERY time somebody comes at you.” his eyes flickered back toward leon, and despite himself, he laughed quietly. “as for whatever follows me out there?” he shook his head. “doc, if i knew the answer to that, i'd probably be charging YOU for the appointment.” another crooked grin appeared, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. “all i know is sometimes i get mad way faster than i should. then afterward i gotta sit there wondering why i just tried to kill a guy over something that happens fifty times a game.” he paused, studying leon right back for once. “kinda annoyin' that you figured that out in, like, TWENTY minutes.”
Leon didn't miss the way Chase's expression shifted when the humor landed too cleanly in the air between them, as if it had nowhere to stick. That was often how defenses worked once they started to crack. Not dramatic, not obvious, just a small loss of traction where certainty used to be. He let the silence sit a moment longer than necessary, not to pressure him, but because Chase filled space in a way most patients didn't. Even when he was still, there was an underlying tension to him, like a body that had forgotten what it meant to fully rest.
Leon found himself noticing the details anyway. The way Chase held his shoulder a fraction too carefully when he shifted. The controlled economy of movement that came from repetition, from pain endured rather than fully acknowledged. The faint hesitation that lingered just under his words, as if every sentence had to pass a silent internal check before it was allowed out. It should have remained clinical. It rarely did. Leon's attention drifted back to the scans for a moment, though he wasn't really looking at them anymore. The images were just an anchor now, something to keep his hands occupied while his mind stayed elsewhere. Chase's voice still hung in the room, particularly the part about hesitation, about recognizing himself. That was the part that stayed.
He had heard versions of it before in different forms, from different people, but there was something about the way Chase said it that made it feel less like theory and more like something already in motion. Leon exhaled quietly through his nose. “You are right about one thing,” he said, his voice steady, measured as always. “Most doctors would focus on pain management and return timelines.” His gaze lifted again, settling on Chase with that same unnerving steadiness. “That is not the part that concerns me.” He moved back toward the desk slowly, not hurried, not pressing, simply returning to the space between them like it was a point of equilibrium. The folder on the desk was closed now, forgotten in favor of what could not be contained in paperwork.
Leon studied him again, not with the bluntness of judgment, but with the quiet persistence of someone trying to understand a mechanism that refused to behave predictably. The word Chase had used lingered in his mind. Hesitate. Leon had seen what hesitation did in bodies trained for immediacy. It didn't always show up as failure. Sometimes it showed up as restraint at the wrong time. A half-step late. A decision delayed by a fraction of a second that turned instinct into uncertainty. In a sport built on speed and collision, that fraction could become everything. More than that, though, he recognized something else underneath it. Identity fracture. He didn't say it yet. He let the observation settle into shape before giving it language. “You talk about hesitation as if it is just a performance issue,” Leon said quietly, tone still clinical on the surface, though something more intent had begun to thread through it beneath. “As if it only matters in terms of timing, reaction speed, output.” A pause followed, measured and deliberate.
“Hesitation is rarely about mechanics.” He shakes his head gently before returning his focus to Chase. It was not invasive in an obvious sense, but it was focused enough that most people would have felt it as pressure. Leon had learned long ago that attention, when applied correctly, could feel a lot like weight. “You are not worried about losing effectiveness,” he continued. “You are worried about losing certainty in the moment when certainty is what kept you functional.” He let that sit. Let the room feel quieter than it should, though little had changed in it. Leon shifted slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the desk, not leaning in, not closing distance, but simply anchoring himself there as he worked through the pattern forming in front of me. The aggression noted in the report. The controlled violence on ice. The escalation did not belong to strategy alone. The way Chase described anger as something that arrived too fast and left him wondering afterward what had taken over.
Leon had seen that before, too, not always in athletes, but in people who learned early that emotion had to be acted out before it could be felt. His gaze flickered almost imperceptibly over Chase's posture again. There was history there, whether Chase wanted to name it or not. Leon did not ask about it yet, but instead, he chose the part Chase would resist less immediately. “Players lose control. It happens.” He pauses, slightly. “What interests me specifically is your description of it afterward.” His tone shifted subtly then, not softer, but more precise, as if narrowing in on a variable. “You said it stops being about the game,” Leon continued. “That is the part you are not accounting for in your own explanation.”
He watched Chase closely as he said it, not waiting for interruption but allowing space for it if it came. Quieter, with a restraint that made the next part feel more significant than the previous observations combined, he added, “because if it stops being about the game, then something else is taking its place. Whatever that is will not behave according to the rules you are used to.” Leon's expression shifted only slightly, but there was something more present in it now. A little less detached than before, but still deliberately controlled. “I am not asking you this because I think you are reckless,” he said. “I am asking because your body is still recovering from an injury caused by a moment where control was lost, and you are describing control as something you rely on to start intact.” His gaze held firm. “I am trying to understand what happens to you when that control stops working.”
