Lalamei

it’s me. i’m bitches.

Knock. (angst & fluff)

It was this scene again, etched into her mind like a relentless curse. She could smell the acrid stench of burning wood and rotting garbage, mingling with the desperate cries and screams of her neighbors. She was nine again, small and terrified. Her head throbbed with a dizzying pain, the bruising ache from when a piece of plywood had crashed onto her.

A deafening roar shattered the air as another explosion tore through the neighborhood, sending shockwaves of fiery devastation in all directions. Flames danced hungrily, consuming everything they touched. The stench of burning flesh was unbearable—thick, nauseating, and infinitely more horrifying than charred pork or beef. It reeked of something profoundly evil and utterly revolting, a scent that clawed at her soul and churned her stomach into knots.

The black smoke invaded her lungs, a suffocating grip that squeezed tighter with every breath. She choked, each inhalation a desperate struggle against the oppressive heat and toxic fumes that swirled around her, burning her throat and searing her insides. The smoke was so dense it felt like it was wrapping around her, binding her in a lethal embrace.

Amidst the chaos, her vision blurred with tears and pain, she saw dismembered limbs scattered on the ground, charred beyond recognition. The grotesque sight of lifeless bodies, twisted in unnatural positions, added to the overwhelming horror. Blood pooled on the scorched earth, dark and glistening under the flickering flames, a grim reminder of the carnage.

"Mama… mama…" Her voice trembled, a pitiful cry swallowed by the chaos and destruction. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against the cacophony of terror. She tried to move, to find her mother, but the fear paralyzed her, roots of dread anchoring her to the spot.

Suddenly, she jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. Her heart raced as her eyes darted around, adjusting to the dim light of the enclosed room. The air was still, the silence heavy and almost oppressive. There was no fire, no smoke—just the lingering terror of her nightmare, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud.

“It’s all a dream… just a dream…” she murmurs to herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her trembling body. She’s alive. She’s awake. The nightmare was over.

She forces herself to stand, her legs shaky beneath her as she makes her way to the shared kitchen. The images still haunt her, vivid and terrifying, refusing to fade.

"A nightmare, huh?" Ghost's low, husky voice cuts through the silence, startling her. His sudden presence, as always, is unexpected yet oddly comforting.

His voice softens, though it still carries that rough edge. "Nightmares been getting to you again?"

“I thought you were on guard duty,” she replies, trying to sound dismissive but failing to hide the quiver in her voice.

Ghost leans against the wall, his massive frame dwarfing her in the small room. The proximity is both intimidating and strangely reassuring.

"I was," he says, his tone gruff but laced with a softness he reserves only for her. "But I thought I'd check on ya. You haven't been sleeping well lately."

She looks up at him, meeting his gaze. There's a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, barely perceptible but enough to make her chest tighten. He's a fearsome soldier, renowned for his combat skills and unwavering presence on the battlefield. Yet, here he is, his demeanor softened, his concern for her palpable.

“I’m fine. Just a dream. That’s all.” She gulps down the water, the cool liquid doing little to quell the tremors running through her.

Ghost's expression darkens as he watches her try to brush off her troubles. “Yeah…” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “and I’m the King of England. Those nightmares are taking a toll on you.”

He’s heard her wake up in the night more times than he cares to count. Each time, he hears her whisper in her sleep, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the nightmare. He knows the dreams haunt her, more real and terrifying than she lets on.

“Respectfully, Sir… I think you should let it go.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow behind the mask. “And respectfully… I think you should talk to me 'bout these dreams.” There’s a raw edge to his voice, a hint of pain beneath the brusqueness. “We’re supposed to watch each other’s sixes. How can I do that if you shut me out?”

“Don’t.” She raises her palms, a defensive gesture, but her voice wavers, betraying her inner turmoil.

"Don’t what?" His gaze remains fixed on hers, intense and unwavering. "Don’t care? Don’t worry? Don’t try to help?”

A sigh escapes his lips, heavy with frustration and a touch of vulnerability. In this moment, he isn't Ghost, the fearless soldier, but just a man trying to understand. His voice softens, “I’m not good at this feelings stuff… you know? But you’re important to me. And, hell… I worry about you.”

“Tell that to the woman you kissed at the pub!” she snaps, the words out before she can stop them. Her eyes flash with hurt and anger.

Ghost’s eyes widen behind the mask. Shock and guilt etch across his face, though mostly obscured by the skull covering. He stumbles over his words, a rare occurrence for the usually collected soldier. “I can explain,” he starts, but she shakes her head, cutting him off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she mumbles, trying to maintain a semblance of indifference. “I’m not your girlfriend, right?”

And that… that truth cut deep. She wasn't his girlfriend. Despite the electric chemistry crackling between them, despite the longing glances and the lingering touches, they had never crossed that line. But Ghost couldn't deny the storm of emotions raging within him.

He had kissed the woman, hoping it would ease the ache in his heart, hoping it would dull the sharp edges of his feelings for her. But now, faced with the reality that she had witnessed him with someone else, all those emotions crashed over him like a relentless tide.

He tries again, his voice betraying a crack of desperation, "that woman… she meant nothing to me. She was a distraction. She was…”

But he trails off, the weight of the truth bearing down on him. He had used that woman as an escape, a way to hide from the relentless pull he felt towards her, a futile attempt to silence the longing in his soul.

But now, he can't hide from the truth any longer.

“Let me deal with my nightmares on my own.”

And that stings, too. The way she keeps pushing him away, refusing to let him in, refusing to let him share her burdens. He wants to be there for her, to hold her through the darkest nights, to chase away the demons that haunt her dreams. Yet she keeps pushing him away.

“Why do you push me away?” His frustration spills out, mingled with a raw vulnerability that he rarely shows. "I want to help, damn it. I…"

He hesitates, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "I care about you. More than I should.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

Those words cut deeper than any bullet ever could. Yet, he presses on, his voice heavy with emotion.

“Why not? Because it’s not what we signed up for? Because it’s not what’s professional?” He steps closer to her, his voice barely a whisper now. His gloved fingertips graze against her cheek, the touch gentle, as if afraid she might vanish before his eyes.

“It’s not professional. I can’t have you risking your rank.”

“To hell with my rank!” His gruff voice reverberates through the room, his hand now firmly cupping her face.

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve stitched me up, patched me up. You’ve saved my damn life on innumerable occasions. I owe you that and more.”

His gaze holds hers, pleading for understanding, for acceptance of the truth he's finally admitting. "Maybe it’s not ‘professional’. Maybe it’s messy and complicated. But it's real, damn it."

He brings his other hand to her face, cradling it gently, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. The leather of his glove contrasts starkly against her soft skin.

"I’m done pretending."

His voice is rough, filled with a desperate intensity. The walls he built around his heart, the barriers of restraint, finally crumble as he speaks the words he’s been holding back.

"I don’t care if it’s not ‘professional’. My heart is already yours. And I don’t want it back."

“Am I… interrupting something?”

Gaz’s eyebrow is raised as he uncaps his water tumbler.

Ghost's eyes widen in realization, embarrassment flushing his cheeks beneath the mask. He turns towards Gaz, annoyance and surprise lacing his voice.

"Bloody hell, Gaz! Can't you knock!"

the way I have 12 more drafts to publish 😭🤍🫂

Paris mornings

If you're a young girl, don't let level-up content convince you that you should stay away from so-called 'dusty' or 'low-vibrational' activities like partying, talking to boys your own age and heck, even downloading Tiktok. You're allowed to be young and you’re allowed to have fun, and trying things that other people your age are doing is part of figuring out who you are and what you like. Don't let level up blogs convince you that you should just study, read, self-isolate, repeat because you will probably look back later in life and wish that you had allowed yourself to be young.

do you remember that beautiful quote recited at the end of the film the shape of water, directed by guillermo del toro, when the lovers embrace underwater?

here’s a truly fascinating article written by a librarian who researched the original writer of this poem and fell down a rabbit hole. i encourage everyone to give it a look!

I’m tired of hearing people say “Disney’s Cinderella is sanitized. In the original tale, the stepsisters cut off parts of their feet to make the slipper fit and get their eyes pecked out by birds in the end.”

I understand this mistake. I’m sure a lot of people buy copies of the complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales, see their tale of Aschenputtel translated as “Cinderella”, and assume what they’re reading is the “original” version of the tale. Or else they see Into the Woods and make the same assumption, because Sondheim and Lapine chose to base their Cinderella plot line on the Grimms’ Aschenputtel instead of on the more familiar version. It’s an understandable mistake. But I’m still tired of seeing it.

The Brothers Grimm didn’t originate the story of Cinderella. Their version, where there is no fairy godmother, the heroine gets her elegant clothes from a tree on her mother’s grave, and where yes, the stepsisters do cut off parts of their feet and get their eyes pecked out in the end, is not the “original.” Nor did Disney create the familiar version with the fairy godmother, the pumpkin coach, and the lack of any foot-cutting or eye-pecking.

If you really want the “original” version of the story, you’d have to go back to the 1st century Greco-Egyptian legend of Rhodopis. That tale is just this: “A Greek courtesan is bathing one day, when an eagle snatches up her sandal and carries it to the Pharaoh of Egypt. The Pharaoh searches for the owner of the sandal, finds her and makes her his queen.”

Or, if you want the first version of the entire plot, with a stepdaughter reduced to servitude by her stepmother, a special event that she’s forbidden to attend, fine clothes and shoes given to her by magic so she can attend, and her royal future husband finding her shoe after she loses it while running away, then it’s the Chinese tale of Ye Xian you’re looking for. In that version, she gets her clothes from the bones of a fish that was her only friend until her stepmother caught it and ate it.

But if you want the Cinderella story that Disney’s film was directly based on, then the version you want is the version by the French author Charles Perrault. His Cendrillon is the Cinderella story that became the best known in the Western world. His version features the fairy godmother, the pumpkin turned into a coach, mice into horses, etc, and no blood or grisly punishments for anyone. It was published in 1697. The Brothers Grimm’s Aschenputtel, with the tree on the grave, the foot-cutting, etc. was first published in 1812.

The Grimms’ grisly-edged version might feel older and more primitive while Perrault’s pretty version feels like a sanitized retelling, but such isn’t the case. They’re just two different countries’ variations on the tale, French and German, and Perrault’s is older. Nor is the Disney film sanitized. It’s based on Perrault.

after getting back on tumblr, Instagram became a bit meh for me 😐

カプキャラアニマル　ハムスター (bandai)

我爱你，但我会永远更爱自己