Insecurity - Blog Posts

kill your insecurities

I just reada really good fic but halfway through I realized "oh shit this is really familiar.... didn't I write something like this once?" And as I kept reading I kept predicting what happened next and the further I went the more convinced I was that they'd ripped off my story-

like, copied the ENTIRE plot and re-written it, just better than I had? The characters were more fleshed-out than mine were, and the POV was more interesting, and the pace made more sense- but it was MY STORY?

So close to the end I was like "holy shit.. do I message them? Ask if my story inspired theirs? Should I be angry? Flattered?" Cause their tags and description didn't mention me AT ALL, which, sure, it's fanfiction to begin with, but if you're using my work than at least credit me as inspo, right? Just to be courteous?

But I get to the end of the final chapter, and it's not finished, and I'm kind of disappointed cause I never finished my story and I was really immersed in their version now and had been looking forwards to seeing how they tied up my loose ends- so I scroll to the bottom to leave a comment, and.

It's MY URL.

IT WAS MY STORY THE WHOLE TIME.

THE ONE *I WROTE*.

In *2013*.

And FORGOT ABOUT

BECAUSE I WAS SO INSECURE ABOUT MY SLOPPY, SHALLOW, AMETEUR WRITING

And I'm just sitting here now staring into space thinking about every shitty story I've ever written now like

IT WAS ALL GOOD?

IT WAS GOOD THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME??

I'M A GOOD WRITER?????

I need someone to care like this. I need someone to mourn me.

pov- When you feel actually pretty and then remember you have a body.

Having a husband who is constantly expressing his love and how attracted he is to me is so wonderful 😭 having struggled with weight and just not feeling my prettiest the last few years because of it has been rough. But never once have I had to question my husband's feels about me ❤️ I wish I could see me the way he see me because I would never have a single insecurity again

"you're safe with me babe, you can sleep. i'm not leaving, you know..." they just smiled while staring at you getting active again. you wanted to believe them but how? what if they needed someting and needed your help to find it? what if they couldn't sleep? it was the first time they were coming over to your house after five months of relationship. "are you sure?" you asked. they didnt even repond. simply wrapping their arm around your waist and then they hugged you tight against them. they put their head on your back and sigh hapily. you were feeling so calm for the first time since so long, too long. tighly squeezed against them, feeling their warmth spread throught your body. honestly, you just knew that this relationship wasnt gonna last. they were going to leave you so you just wanted to enjoy this pure moment of happiness. yeah they were gonna leave you, because you were not like them. you weren't really smart, not pretty funny either and certainly not pretty. you often think about the fact that they maybe do not even love you, that this is a bet given by their friends to make fun of you. but five month is pretty long for a stupid bet, right ? you didn't know at this point, staring blankly at the wall. you wanted to cry. great, here you go again, always getting so fucking emotive and for nothing. of course they were gonna leave you, you were just so damn boring.

but you just wanted a hug.

It’s like 1:00 am and I keep having these weird thoughts so I’m just gonna post them here because I feel like if any site is gonna get me it would be this site. I keep having these weird thoughts because I’m super insecure but I’m also super nice so my brain sometimes just puts me in weird, impossible situations. The most common though I have is if I ever met someone who looked exactly like me or if I ever met another me that was the exact same as I am now how would I react. My brain typically does this when I’m being self deprecating and I’m overwhelmed so my first thought is typically that I’m ugly but then my brain starts berating me for being mean to this not real person who looks exactly like me. I then go in circles about this for about an hour until I force myself to sleep or I get distracted by something else.

My first pride month (sorry, there's a lot text here)

Last October, I started questioning my sexuality. I was (and still am, really) an insecure person. So when I started questioning that particular aspect of my personality, accompanying thoughts began to creep in: "Seriously? You are already 20! You never questioned yourself before, but right now decided to? Why? Got bored because of the large amount of free time? Have you forgotten, that you study at the university?! You must focus your thought on this, not that! Why don't you get back to the box, where you exist as a standard girl, who is confident at least in some parts of her identity? Where everything is more simple."

Summarize of my personal experience:

I got interested in R-rated content only because I thought that I was lagging behind the others: "Okay, my classmates got interested into all of this stuff 2 years ago. I guess I should too. That's what teens usually do, right?"

I had crushes (on fictional characters, celebrities and a few classmates), but it was more like an admiration, appreciation of their aesthetic beauty (like a sculpture or a painting) or love for their personality. And I never wanted to "bone" them. Seeing an image of a favourite character on a dakimakura was feeling like: "Oh, okay. I can see the creator's train of thoughts. I appreciate the quality of work. I don't mind other people wanting to buy something like that. But it's not something I would like to have. Seeing a character half-naked seems like I'm violating their personal space. Too intimate. I would rather have a pin or a poster." I am more into fluff. Also like the idea of being buddies with the favourite character and being happy for their happiness with someone else.

When I became an adult, I understood, that I never want to act flirty around guys, or anyone really. For me it feels out of character. And never want my body to be sexualized. Icky.

My view on relationship was either a "hopeless romantic" one, or a "trying to logically or mathematically figure out how relationship work" one. It took me time to believe that two people can barely know one another to "jump right to action" and/or to start dating. I saw that in movies, read about that in book, heard about that in real life, but couldn't believe it or accept it. Because I always thought that choosing a partner takes time and "the thing" is one of the ways to show them your love for them. Like a catharsis, a quintessence of love. Something special for someone special (I'm and idiot, I know).

However, I always saw these things as a prove that I just have a childish outlook on life. That I'm just a dumb kid, who tries to understand the world of adults. I wanted to understand, why I felt that my experience differed from the people who surrounded me; but I couldn't identify myself as ace because back then I knew only about demi and grey. I didn't know that this spectrum has more labels.

I've finally found the answer to my question. It feels releaving and scary at the same time. And yet I feel happy.

P.S. I want to say "thank you" to two of my friends in real life, who supported me, after I came out to them.

Thank you mom for critisizing me for weighing my food. That definitely doesn't make me feel any more insecure and stupid 👍

"Dude, wdym?? You're super pretty!! What made you feel so insecure about your figure?"

Answer: the way fat people are portrayed in movies and scenes where they eat themselves half-blind like literal pigs. Having to watch them as a child started it all.

I can easily tell most movie directors think fat people's only personality trait is eating 24/7 and it hurts.

So I’ll try to get better lightning next time but for now I think this is the best I can make out of it. (there’s a lot of smoke that’s blocking the sun here because of forest fires and the indoor lights aren’t the best either). Anyway I’m sure people already came up with this idea but I wanted to do my take on Deceit’s scales. The headcanon here is that scales pop-up the more you lie to yourself and others. And of course the sides try to hide it at much from the each other as possible because they think they’re the only ones, they are insecure and various other reasonable well explainable lies reasons. Which only makes it worse. I guess this is basically considered angst for all sides woops.

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I’m hoping I didn’t tag anyone that didn’t want to be tagged if so please inform me.

Bringing this back because I feel like I don't have the talent for storytelling or drawing...

There's this one series (Lunette Precure) I had that I want to bring back as a novel but I'm not sure if I should due to the toxic experience I had with making a series, I remember I had this precure fanseries called dream skies precure when I was 13-14 and the experience I had while trying to make it was awful, a lot of people bullying me into changing the character designs, people calling it terrible when I never even got started with the first episode (and they could've ignored it if they didn't like it), stealing my characters just to make hateful shit and more (and there was very little criticism to help improve it btw), I was like 13-14 with low self confidence and decided that i should just cancel it and nothing changed.... Nowadays when I come up with a new series, I always worry if it's not good enough and that I need to change something about it (I'm 17 now and still struggle)

There's this one series (Lunette Precure) I had that I want to bring back as a novel but I'm not sure if I should due to the toxic experience I had with making a series, I remember I had this precure fanseries called dream skies precure when I was 13-14 and the experience I had while trying to make it was awful, a lot of people bullying me into changing the character designs, people calling it terrible when I never even got started with the first episode (and they could've ignored it if they didn't like it), stealing my characters just to make hateful shit and more (and there was very little criticism to help improve it btw), I was like 13-14 with low self confidence and decided that i should just cancel it and nothing changed.... Nowadays when I come up with a new series, I always worry if it's not good enough and that I need to change something about it (I'm 17 now and still struggle)

So I made a sander sides oc/person! I introduced to you Insecurity! i Haven’t come up with a name for them yet so there just insecurity for now. But ya he sad bo/ bean that just needs a hug. I will make there symbo next 0w0

Get over your jealousy and insecurities, there’s a wonderful world of experiences waiting for you both just beyond.

First you must both be secure in yourself and in your relationship.

Never hide anything, just be honest and take it slow.

Unguarded

I'm sorry I let you see me unguarded.

Let you see my darkness, left you forever haunted.

I'm sorry I killed you with my insecurities.

The atrocity, your ghost is keeping me company.

I'm sorry If I ever dared to make you cry.

For even the skies could fade at the blue of your eyes.

I'm sorry I could never quite be adequate.

You deserve everything and I'm so horribly limited.

I'm sorry I dreamt of us, peaceful under the moon.

A fever dream for someone who only knows how to ruin.

I'm sorry I blamed everything on the distance.

I can't get you to love me without this deafening silence.

I'm sorry I ever thought that we were binary stars.

Always said "I understand" even with a shattered heart.

I'm sorry I didn't listen to my obscene thoughts.

When they precisely said that misery was all I brought.

I'm sorry my hatred wasn't loud enough to hide yours.

A wreckage cannot be loved. I should've hidden my scars.

I'm sorry I ever let you see the real me.

I'll stay constrained just so you won't leave.

I'll hide myself a little to help you breathe. 

Subuh2 overthinking

the problem is I'm craving for men's attention... I always see myself as a whore.

Being surrounded by men makes me feel secure and...wanted

Alongside, people who do not reciprocate my feelings are more attractive than those who do otherwise.

I'm that ungrateful girl as I'm still seeking other men (or women) while I have one who is willing to accept my true self.

the issue here lies between I need external validation and i love being the center of attention

I love it when ppl say I'm pretty, a good kisser, the goddess on the sheet, a motherly figure, smart or independent. they define my self-worth. however, it comes to my subconscious mind that - sadly - I'm attempting to fit men's conventional standards. You can guess where I lead to be? yes, that pick-me-girl type

Been aware that my childhood has shaped me into what I am today and fixing is a loooooong journey. i dont make any improvement yet. it's so fckin hard to be consistent and disciplined. see? im still struggling.

in reality, I really understand the reason why I was cheating or seeking other opportunities is to find security. my birth chart said that I can grow if I have been in a stable environment. stable here means in a secure place literally - figuratively. yet, i can confirm this is 100% accurate.

how can I create this safe place on my own? everyday, i have battles to win for

how can i be independent?

how can I stand up for myself?

how can i stay loyal and be grateful for what I have now?

do I feel enough?

🥀 No esperes cumplidos de una persona insegura. . 🥀 Don’t expect compliments from an insecure person. #seguridad #security #inseguridad #insecurity #ilustration #illustration #ilustracion 27/365 https://www.instagram.com/p/BtwgnDkFWEM/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=4mbp5vb3gwi5

That

That if I wasn't perfect,my parents wouldn't want me around.

So easy to find proof that there's a serious problem with antisocial media as well as the so-called real world. Rampant prejudice, hate and discrimination are targeting the smartest people alive and if the world doesn't realize just how dangerous that is, then the problem is even worse than I once suspected. The fact that there are no laws that protect the intelligent minority from discrimination and hate crimes is the biggest piece of evidence of the prejudice towards intelligence there is. Especially in these days where everybody is a champion of some minorities cause but yet when I talk about this, people respond with the same sort of remarks that people used to say in defense of the oppression of women and African Americans and other minorities. Such hypocrisy.

I crave INTIMACY desperately, but when I’m touched I pull myself away. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to allow anyone in my life.. I am triggered when I am hugged, kissed, admired by others and yet I disagree with them all.

Glances

I despise

Entering the stage

As I'd be a kind

Of tragical disgrace

Spots too bright

They melt my face

And I feel like

A tragic disgrace

Doesn't matter

which side I light

Cause the shadow

Remains behind

we dont talk about bruno because hes not worth it | a bruno madrigal playlist

I hope you like the playlist and that the songs fit the character, lowkey kinda rushed it because I wanted to post it as fast as possible but bruno is such a...

A playlist that, once again, doesn’t belong to me beacause I relate a little too much to Bruno.

1, 2, 4, 5, 6 and 7. Wuv my family❤️ UwU

Reblog if you are insecure about anything below:

-weight

-appearance

-intelligence (or lack of) 

-skills (or lack of) 

-weird hobbies

-friends (or lack of) 

-body

-personality

-family

Who ever reblogs this will get a message in their inbox.

this is home

Jensen Ackles x Actress!Reader / Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader <platonic>

not saying anything about anyone. this idea materialized and went with it.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Jensen had barely stepped into the terminal before the chaos began.

Flashes. Voices. Pens. Phones.

“Jensen! Over here!”

“Jensen! Just one shot, man!”

“Can you sign this, Jensen?”

He gave his trademark half-grin, the one that made crowds light up, and started signing with an ease that only came from years of practice. Photos, posters, a few weird objects. He didn't ask questions. Just kept it moving, just like always.

TMZ was in the mix, too, and so were a few of those guys with binders full of photos they’d resell online. Jensen didn’t love it, but he handled them the same way he handled everything else in public — smooth and unbothered. Or at least, looking that way.

“Where’s Y/N today?” someone called.

He didn’t look up, just said, “She’s across the country shooting right now.”

“Oh, that’s with Pedro Pascal, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen chuckled as he handed back a marker. “Lucky bastard gets to hang with her all day.”

Laughter rippled around him. He leaned into the joke, let it deflect any of the sting. He was cool with Pedro. Friendly, even. It wasn’t weird.

Mostly.

Then someone from the crowd — guy with a beard, phone out — pushed closer.

“Hey Jensen, you seen the new photos from set?”

Still signing, Jensen blinked. “What photos?”

The guy turned his phone around.

Three photos.

The first: you and Pedro laughing with the director, looking like a couple of kids in the best kind of trouble.

The second: Pedro saying something that had you smiling so wide Jensen could practically hear the laugh that went with it.

The third one hit a little lower. You, tucked under Pedro’s arm, head resting comfortably on his shoulder, the two of you watching something off-screen like you’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was natural. Like it belonged.

Jensen’s jaw ticked.

Barely.

He gave the phone back.

The guy raised an eyebrow. “What’s up with that, man?”

“Uh, nothing, man.” Jensen shrugged, light as air. “That’s common on set when two lead actors are playing each other’s love interest and they’re close friends like they are.”

Another signature. Another fake smile.

“You just have fun with it all and enjoy the ride. I know how much she likes working with the guy and how much fun she’s having on set. And that’s important, you know? Because other than the director, they’re the leaders on set — they set the tone for the rest of the cast and crew.”

He was answering without thinking now, defaulting to PR mode as the weight of the third photo stuck with him. How natural it looked. How comfortable you were in Pedro’s arms. How Jensen had never seen that particular smile when you were with him.

He wrapped things up quickly after that, making excuses about catching his flight, shaking hands, thanking the fans. Cool. Calm. Collected.

He stayed that way all the way to the gate.

All the way to his seat in first class.

All the way until the plane door sealed shut and he finally exhaled, jaw unclenching as he pulled out his phone.

He typed, erased, typed again.

Finally, he sent the message:

Need you to call me ASAP. Saw the new set pics.

He stared out the window.

Trying — and failing — not to replay the way your head rested on Pedro’s shoulder like it had every right to be there.

You were sitting in your trailer with your makeup half-done and your feet kicked up on the little sofa when your phone buzzed.

Jensen 💚: Need you to call me ASAP. Saw the new set pics.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the message for a second too long, rereading it like the words might change if you blinked hard enough.

You pulled up Instagram. Nothing on your feed yet. No tags. Then you checked Twitter — and there it was. A trending post. Your name. Pedro's. Someone had zoomed in on a few candid shots from set.

First one: You and Pedro laughing your asses off as the director waved her hands around. You remembered that moment — she’d made a joke about Pedro's "hero stance" being too dramatic, and Pedro had played it up even more. You’d doubled over laughing.

Second one: Pedro standing in front of you, making faces while the hair stylist adjusted your wig. You were grinning, wide and unfiltered.

Third one: …oh.

Oh.

You were leaning into him. Your head on his shoulder, his arms loose around you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. You looked calm. At peace. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

You swallowed hard.

Because yeah, it was normal on set. You’d spent weeks rehearsing together, shooting long days, figuring out the chemistry of your characters. You and Pedro got along — scarily well. He made you laugh when you needed it, offered you his coat between takes, always remembered to bring your favorite snack from the craft table.

But that photo. It didn’t look like friends. Not in the context of a trending topic. Not in the context of—

You clicked back to your messages.

No follow-up text.

You dialed him immediately, chewing at your thumbnail as it rang.

Once. Twice. Voicemail.

You hung up and called again.

No answer.

You hated this feeling — this wedge that had dropped between you from one image, one that wasn’t even about anything. But to him… it probably looked like something else. Something intimate.

Your trailer door creaked open and Pedro popped his head in. “Hey, we’re being called back in like, five—”

You must’ve looked pale or something, because he stopped short. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… give me a minute?”

He hesitated. “Alright.” He lingered. “If this is about the photo stuff—”

You looked up sharply.

Pedro sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Someone showed me on set. I didn’t think it’d blow up like this. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly.

He gave you a small smile. “If he saw that third one, I get it. He’s probably just—y’know. Human.”

You nodded. “Yeah. He is.”

Pedro gave you one last look before closing the door behind him.

You stared at your phone again. The silence from Jensen felt louder than anything else.

You hated that one still frame — one unintentional, unguarded moment — could undo so much. Or make someone you love doubt what’s real.

You tried calling again.

Voicemail.

This time, you left one.

“Hey, babe. I just saw the photos. I know how that last one must’ve looked, and I’m sorry if it hurt you. It wasn’t anything, I swear. Pedro and I were waiting to shoot a scene, and I was freezing — I didn’t even realize someone took a picture. I should’ve texted you more from set, I know things have been hectic. But please don’t think for one second that you have anything to worry about. Okay? You’re it for me.”

You hesitated before hanging up.

Then, softer: “I miss you.”

Jensen had just leveled out in the air when he finally put his headphones in.

He didn’t open a movie. Didn’t scroll through music.

He played your voicemail.

It was quiet at first — your voice hushed, gentle. He closed his eyes.

“Hey, babe. I just saw the photos. I know how that last one must’ve looked, and I’m sorry if it hurt you…”

His jaw clenched. It didn’t hurt. I’m fine, he told himself, which was the first lie of the day.

It had hurt. Not in a full-on betrayal way — he trusted you. Of course he did. But that photo had snagged something in his chest and refused to let go. The way you looked with Pedro... relaxed, safe, like he was your home.

It was his shoulder you were supposed to lean on like that. Not someone else's.

“Pedro and I were waiting to shoot a scene, and I was freezing — I didn’t even realize someone took a picture…”

He knew. He knew. He’d been in this industry long enough to recognize what was real and what was camera bait. But still — your head on Pedro’s shoulder, his arms around you — it was too real-looking. It felt like something private, even if it wasn’t.

“I should’ve texted you more from set…”

Yeah, maybe. But he hadn’t exactly been blowing up your phone either. You’d both been busy, missing each other in that quiet, painful way people do when life gets loud.

“Please don’t think for one second that you have anything to worry about. Okay? You’re it for me.”

His throat tightened.

God, he missed you. Missed your laugh, your late-night ramblings, the way your hand always found his knee when you were curled up next to him. Missed your presence, like something about the world clicked into place when you were near.

“I miss you.”

He pulled out one earbud, let the quiet hum of the plane fill the silence. His eyes stayed on the seat in front of him, unfocused. He didn’t replay the message again — didn’t need to. Your voice was already echoing in his head.

He tapped out a reply before he could overthink it:

I miss you too. Let’s talk when I land, okay? We’ll talk.

He picked up the call on the first ring.

“Hey,” your voice came through, soft but steady.

“Hey,” he said back, eyes shut as he leaned against the seat. His voice was lower than usual, gravelly from holding too much in.

“I didn't want to wait.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

A pause.

“You okay?” you asked.

He let out a quiet breath, one hand scrubbing down his face. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t. But I’m better now.”

“That photo—”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “I know it’s nothing. I know how sets work. Hell, I’ve probably looked that cozy with co-stars more times than I can count.”

“Still… I hate that you saw it that way.”

“I didn’t want to,” he admitted, voice raw around the edges. “Didn’t want to feel that flash of… I don’t even know what it was. Just hit me out of nowhere.”

“It was cold. Pedro offered his jacket. I leaned. That was it.”

Jensen gave a humorless huff. “Pedro’s a good guy. I know that. I like him.”

“I know you do.”

“But seeing you in his arms like that—” he stopped, forcing his words to even out. “It looked like I’d been replaced.”

“You haven’t been,” you said, firm now. “Not even close.”

He stayed quiet, letting the weight of that truth settle between you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check in more,” you continued. “We’ve both been running non-stop. And I know how much that messes with things.”

“I should’ve called too,” he said. “Should’ve made time. We’re both guilty.”

“You didn’t ask for pictures like that to be taken.”

“You didn’t ask to go viral for existing on a film set.”

That made you laugh — just a little — and he felt something in his chest loosen.

“I meant what I said in the voicemail,” you added. “You’re it for me, Jensen. Okay? Even when it’s cold. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m a thousand miles away.”

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“I needed to hear that,” he said quietly. “Because when I saw that photo… I didn’t feel like ‘it.’ I felt like the guy who got left behind.”

“You didn’t. You won’t be.”

He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, voice almost a whisper now. “Can we be better about this? You and me. Even when it’s crazy. Even when the press starts making shit up. Just… keep each other close?”

“I want that,” you said instantly. “I want us solid, no matter where we are.”

“Okay,” he said. Then softer: “Then we’ll do it.”

Another pause. A gentler one this time.

“Are you headed to the hotel?” you asked.

“Yeah. I’ll call you when I get there. Maybe FaceTime. I wanna see your face.”

“You’re not gonna make me show you I’m not cuddled up to Pedro again, are you?” you teased lightly.

He chuckled, finally — a real one. “Nah. But I’ll make you prove you still smile bigger when you see me.”

“You better believe I do.”

He leaned back in his seat again, a quiet smile on his lips as the overhead chime announced arrival.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” you answered.

This time, it didn’t just feel like words.

It felt like coming home.

The hotel room was dim, lit mostly by the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp. Jensen tossed his duffel on the floor, kicked off his boots, and let out a groan as he flopped back onto the mattress.

He didn’t even bother with the TV. All he wanted to do was see your face.

He hit FaceTime, thumb hovering for just a second before he pressed “Call.”

It rang once. Twice.

Then you answered.

“Hi,” you said, appearing on his screen, wrapped in a hoodie — his hoodie, he realized — hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm.

He exhaled, a sound like something uncoiling inside him.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You smiled. A real one this time. “Here I am.”

He angled the phone so you could see him too, stretched out on the bed, shirt wrinkled from travel, hair a little messy from the flight.

“You look good,” you said quietly.

He huffed a small laugh. “I look like I just went twelve rounds with airport security.”

“Still,” you said. “You look like home.”

That did something to him. His chest ached in that gentle way it always did when you cut straight through his walls without even trying.

“I hated that we fought without actually fighting,” you said, voice softer now.

“We didn’t fight,” he replied. “We… stumbled.”

You nodded. “Well. Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.”

You were quiet for a moment, studying him through the screen like you were trying to memorize every detail. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes — long day, long week, maybe just missing him more than you’d let yourself admit until now.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

“I am now.”

He swallowed. “I know that photo caught me off guard. But I trust you. Even when it stings. Even when I hate sharing you with the world.”

“You’re not sharing me,” you said. “Not really. The world gets pieces. You get all of me.”

His throat tightened. “That better not just be the sleep talking.”

“It’s not,” you whispered.

You just watched each other for a moment — no talking, no pressure. Just two people staring through a screen and wishing it were a window.

“You wanna stay on the call while you crash?” he asked eventually. “I’ll just leave you propped up. We don’t have to talk.”

You blinked. “Like fall asleep on FaceTime?”

“Yeah. Old school teen romance style.”

You smiled, curling deeper under your blanket. “That sounds perfect.”

He angled his phone against a pillow so you had a good view — just his face and that soft, sleepy look in his eyes. You did the same.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

“Goodnight, baby.”

He didn’t care how cheesy it was. Didn’t care about time zones or bad lighting or how far away you were.

Right now, he could see your face.

And for the first time in days, Jensen felt like everything might just be okay.

The soundstage was quiet for a rare moment — reset lights buzzing, crew shuffling softly, the buzz of production dulled under the weight of fatigue and late-afternoon haze. You stood near video village, holding a paper cup of now-cold coffee, eyes skimming the script pages you already knew by heart.

But your mind was somewhere else.

Back in that hotel room with Jensen’s face on your phone. Back in his voice, low and tired, but honest. Back in the look in his eyes when you told him, You’re not sharing me. The world gets pieces. You get all of me.

You knew what that had meant to him — how much it had taken for him to believe it. And still… how hard he was working to keep believing it.

Because Jensen had been burned. One too many times.

People didn’t always love him. They loved the version of him that opened doors. The famous name. The charming face. The connections. The spotlight. The screaming fans. His impeccable good looks.

But when the lights dimmed? When the camera stopped? That’s when the cracks formed. That’s when the sniping started. The cold shoulders. The slow unraveling of something that had never been sewn with kindness in the first place.

He’d told you about it one night, half a bottle of whiskey deep, voice rough and eyes downcast. How he stayed too long. How he kept trying to fix things, even when the only thing breaking was himself.

She made him feel small. Over time, piece by piece. Until he forgot what it was like to be seen with softness.

He didn’t realize it at the time — how much damage that kind of love could do. How deeply it could root itself in the way he saw the world.

He still caught himself, sometimes. When you fought — which wasn’t often — he’d sometimes shoot too fast. A sharp word. A subtle jab. His shoulders would go rigid like he was bracing for a war that wasn’t coming.

And you’d told him. Calm, clear, unmoving.

I love you, but I won’t let you treat me like that. That’s not love. That’s defense. And if you want to be in this with me, then that pattern ends now.

He’d listened. He’d heard you.

And he was trying. You saw it every time he paused to rethink his words. Every time he caught himself and took a breath instead of a verbal swing. Every time he looked at you like he was scared — not of you, but of losing you — and chose to trust instead.

You knew he was trying to be the kind of man who didn’t carry the weight of his past into the room with him.

You knew that meant more than any trending photo or paparazzi buzz ever could.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said gently.

You blinked out of your thoughts to see Pedro beside you, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, expression warm and easy.

“Hey,” you replied, offering a small smile.

He gave you a look. That subtle, careful kind — the kind only good friends know how to give.

“Everything good?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “After… y’know. All the TMZ drama?”

You let out a breath. “Yeah. We talked. He’s good. We’re good.”

Pedro nodded once. “I figured. He seemed like the type to pull it together once he had the facts.”

You glanced at him. “He’s trying. It’s not always easy for him.”

Pedro gave a soft, understanding smile. “No, I get that. People don’t always realize how much shit someone’s carrying until it spills out all over the place.”

You nodded slowly. “He’s been through a lot. Stuff he doesn’t always talk about. And when he does, it’s… heavy.”

Pedro leaned against the edge of the cart beside you, casual but attentive. “He’s lucky to have you.”

You tilted your head. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said, with a small grin. “Because you love him in a way that makes him want to be better. I see it in the way you talk about him — and in the way you look over your shoulder every time your phone buzzes.”

You laughed under your breath, cheeks warming.

Pedro bumped your shoulder lightly. “He’s not the only lucky one, though. You’ve got someone who’s trying to unlearn the shit that broke him. That’s not nothing.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. It’s not.”

He nodded once more, then added, “And hey — for what it’s worth, if he ever forgets what he’s got in you… I’m right here with a very long speech about how dumb he’d be to mess it up.”

You grinned. “Thanks, Pascal. I’ll keep you on standby.”

“Always,” he said with a wink.

You didn’t hear the knock so much as feel it — a jolt of electricity straight through your chest.

You crossed the hotel room in three seconds flat, yanking open the door like something in you had been waiting for this moment all week.

And there he was.

Jensen.

Ball cap, hoodie, boots. Tired eyes and soft smile. You didn’t even say hello — just grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him in.

He dropped his bag somewhere behind him as the door closed, his hands already finding your waist, your back, your face. His touch was everywhere at once — not desperate, just sure.

You kissed him like you hadn’t seen him in years. Like this was the only language you remembered.

He kissed you back just the same.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and slightly dizzy, Jensen rested his forehead against yours, voice low and rough.

“God, I missed you.”

You nodded, eyes still closed. “You feel like home.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I feel like hell. That flight was brutal.”

“You still smell like your cologne,” you whispered, pressing your nose to his collar. “And a little like airplane.”

“You always this affectionate with guys who smell like recycled air?”

“Only the ones I love.”

He smiled into your hair, arms tightening around you. “That’s good. ‘Cause I was planning on staying.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “For the night or for the week?”

He met your gaze. “As long as you’ll let me.”

The answer settled into your chest like sunlight.

You led him toward the bed, fingers laced with his, neither of you needing words to know what this meant. It wasn’t about sex. It was about presence. About closeness. About curling into each other like the answer to a question that’s lingered too long.

Later, after the clothes had been shed and the lights dimmed and the room had gone quiet except for the slow, even rhythm of breath, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“I hate being apart from you,” he murmured.

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes in the dark. “Me too.”

“I don’t care where you are, what time it is — I just want you close.”

“You’ve got me,” you whispered, tracing your fingers along his jaw. “You always do.”

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t just to prove a point. It was a promise.

The sun was starting to dip behind the soundstage, casting long shadows over the parking lot where the crew trucks sat humming, their sides splattered with dust and sunlight.

Pedro was leaning against one of them, sipping a bottle of water, still in costume — the desert wind teasing the edges of his scarf. He looked calm, unbothered. But his eyes tracked everything. They always did.

Jensen saw him before he said a word.

“Hey,” he called, jogging up the last few steps from the studio lot.

Pedro lifted his brows, amused. “Well look who actually exists in daylight.”

Jensen smirked. “Thought I’d swing by before you wrap up. Figured I owed you a face-to-face.”

Pedro nodded, uncapping his water again. “For what? You’re not about to punch me over a publicity still, are you?”

Jensen chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah. We got past all that. She and I talked. It’s good now.”

Pedro gave him a look — not skeptical, just curious. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

There was a beat. One of those heavy, unspoken pauses that says we’re about to get real, aren’t we?

Jensen crossed his arms and leaned against the truck beside Pedro, letting the silence settle before breaking it.

“I know you and she got close,” he said, not accusing — just honest. “I know how this kind of set brings people together. Long hours. Long scenes. Shared trailers and inside jokes.”

Pedro stayed quiet. Letting him talk.

“And I know,” Jensen continued, voice quieter now, “that you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you.”

Pedro tilted his head. “But?”

“No ‘but.’” Jensen looked at him. “Just wanted you to know I appreciate that. That line you never crossed? It means something.”

Pedro nodded once. “She made it easy. She never gave me a reason to question it either.”

“I know.”

Another quiet beat.

Then Pedro glanced over at him, tone lighter but sincere. “She’s good at making people feel like they matter. It’s… kinda her superpower.”

Jensen exhaled a small laugh. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Pedro took another sip, then added, “You’re good for her, too. I see it. She’s been lighter since you got here. Softer.”

“She softens me too,” Jensen admitted.

They stood like that for a moment — two men connected by proximity, friendship, and the same fierce care for one extraordinary woman.

Pedro gave a small smile. “No offense, but I’m glad it’s you.”

Jensen raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I’ve seen her look at you,” Pedro said. “You’re her safe place. That’s rare. Don’t fuck it up.”

Jensen laughed, low and dry. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, man.”

Pedro shrugged with a grin. “Anytime.”

Jensen reached out, clapped his shoulder. “You ever need a beer and someone to complain to about LA traffic, I’m your guy.”

“Deal,” Pedro said, and the smile he gave was real.

They didn’t hug — neither of them were quite built for that level of mutual sentimentality — but something settled between them all the same. A kind of unspoken pact.

The woman they both cared about was safe. Loved. Understood.

And that was enough.

The car was warm and still.

Just highway lights flickering past, casting gold across the dash, the soft hum of tires on asphalt, and Jensen’s hand resting against your thigh — thumb brushing back and forth like it was muscle memory now.

You leaned your head against the window, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, your body finally starting to unclench from the weeks of long shoots, late nights, and emotional tightropes. There wasn’t much left to say.

And you didn’t need there to be.

Jensen glanced over at you, his hat tipped back, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that soft, private smile he only ever gave you when he thought no one else was looking.

“You falling asleep on me?”

“Mm. Just resting my eyes.”

He squeezed your thigh gently, his hand warm and grounding. “You’ve earned it.”

You smiled, tilting your head toward him. “So have you.”

He gave a low hum of agreement but kept his eyes on the road. “You good? Really?”

“I’m good,” you said, voice quiet. “Feels like everything’s settled. For now.”

Jensen nodded once. “I like ‘for now.’ ‘For now’ got me here with you.”

You reached over, letting your fingers thread with his. “You were always gonna end up here with me.”

He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissed the back of yours without breaking focus on the road.

Silence fell again — but the good kind. The kind filled with weightless comfort. With the sound of trust. Of belonging. Of us.

You watched him drive, your heart soft and slow in your chest.

His shoulders had relaxed since he got to set. His voice, less guarded. You could tell he’d let go of something. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was doubt. Maybe it was just that quiet ache of missing someone and finally getting to reach for them again.

Whatever it was, he was here now.

And so were you.

Home wasn’t a place. Not tonight. Home was this drive. His hand in yours. The hush between songs on the radio. The weight of his love, steady and sure, in the space between your heartbeats.

You turned your face toward the windshield, eyes slipping shut.

And you let him carry you the rest of the way home.

The sun was already too bright when you shuffled into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing nothing but one of Jensen’s ancient shirts from a tour he couldn’t even remember doing. You found him exactly where you expected — leaned over the counter with a mug in one hand, and a suspiciously crumb-covered phone in the other.

“Is that my cinnamon muffin?” you asked, eyeing the demolished pastry on the plate beside him.

He didn’t look up. “Define yours.”

You blinked. “The one I wrote my name on. In Sharpie. With hearts.”

“Oh,” he said, finally glancing up. “That muffin.”

“Yeah, that muffin.”

Jensen took a very slow, very exaggerated bite. “Never saw it.”

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He grinned, unapologetic. “You love me. It’s different.”

You stalked over and plucked the last bite out of his hand, popping it into your mouth before he could protest. His jaw dropped in playful betrayal.

“Hey!”

You smirked. “Shared property. That’s how love works, right?”

“Not when it comes to pastries,” he muttered, but he was smiling again — that crooked grin that made your stomach flutter even now.

You moved in closer, sliding your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead to his chest. “We’re really home.”

His hands settled on your hips, warm and steady. “Yeah. Finally.”

You looked up at him. “Do I have to go back to work next week?”

He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “I can call in a fake scandal if you want. Something juicy. Keep you off the hook for a while.”

You laughed. “What, like you broke up with me because I ate your muffin?”

“Or I’m cheating with the craft services girl,” he said dramatically. “We bonded over croissants. It’s been very emotional.”

“Tragic,” you said, fake-pouting. “Guess I’ll have to make you jealous by flirting with Pedro again.”

Jensen raised an eyebrow. “That man could charm a potted plant. You wouldn’t even have to try.”

You grinned. “Might make you appreciate my Sharpie muffins more.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer. “You could eat all my muffins and I’d still pick you every time.”

“Even the blueberry ones?”

He leaned down and kissed you slow. “Especially the blueberry ones.”

You melted into it, laughter catching between your lips.

Home wasn’t always quiet. Sometimes it was teasing and crumbs and half-drunk coffee.

Sometimes it was just this — his arms, your laughter, and a life you’d built one stolen muffin at a time.

“I feel very small. I don't understand. I have so much courage, fire, energy, for many things, yet I get so hurt, so wounded by small things.”

Anaïs Nin, from nearer the moon: the previously unpublished unexpurgated diary,1937-1939

horror of being perceived vs desire to be adored

Some headcanons for America/Canada

• He is fluent in almost every language and his pronunciation is perfect.

•Canada is the only one who knows this. He also knows that America never speaks the languages because no matter what the other countries will insult him on anything and everything he does. Canada knows it affects America a lot, but he pretends it doesn’t. The “Hero” personality is mostly a front in many ways.

•Among the languages America uses regularly is ASL. America unconsciously signs when his emotions are extreme, good or bad, and on occasion when he’s in deep thought. He likes to sign along to songs. He doesn’t really notice he’s doing it.

•Canada is fluent in ASL. He can gauge his brothers mood based on this.

•They use ASL to communicate when they don’t want the other countries to know what they’re talking about. (It drives the other countries absolutely crazy.)

•If you ask America what his favorite movie is he’ll say Captain America (anything Marvel actually) or The Princess Bride. His real favorite movies are, Saving Mr. Banks, Steel Magnolias, Lilo and Stitch, and Up. He will never admit to liking those movies or to having seen any of them.

•America suffers from BPD, ADHD, BP-2. He’s lived with it his whole life. He learned early on how to hide it and lives by the motto “Fake it til you make it.” That’s why his “hero” persona seems forced sometimes. (Only England and Canada know about this. They don’t really talk about it. America doesn’t know that they know.)

•America loves that he now has a friend group! The Awesome trio just goofs around and just has fun together.

•America’s favorite person to spend time with is England. He will drop everything or bail on any other plans he has in order to spend some time with England.

•He doesn’t express his emotions well and doesn’t really know how to tell the people in his life that he loves them. He tries to do acts of kindness to show how much he cares.

•Affection is his love language. Loves hugs and cuddles ect. But only does that with people he loves and trusts completely. (England, Canada, Japan)

I have more but I will save those for another day.

*As a side note, the ASL stuff is actually something I do and those disorders I listed are my own diagnoses. If you read about them or you look up common symptoms, you’ll get why I picked them for him, or at least I hope you will.

Me (eating alone in a cafe): *open phone to look at myself every five minutes to make sure I’m pretty*

My brain: The fuck are you doing

Me: Well I gotta look pretty

My brain: Why tho? You’re alone and no one’s looking at you

Me: Yeah but what if my soulmate comes in??

My brain: YOU DON’T EVEN BELIEVE IN SOULMATES

Me: Okay- true- but what if a cute person comes in?

My brain:

Me: There you go

My brain: WHY WOULD SOMEONE EVEN LOOK AT YOU

Me: IDK LET ME DREAM

I Keep On Hopin' (We'll Eat Cake By The Ocean)

author:

Dandy

summary:

Azul isn't in class, and he isn't answering his texts.

The twins point him to the back of the dorm, to a door labeled "Ocean Access."

Jamil thinks he may be walking to his doom.

(What he finds is so much better.)