Going To Bed: Thinking About Lee Byung Hun

Them:

forza hamilton !

requests are open <3

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♯┆ 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐍 .ᐟ ໒꒱

— ୨୧₊˚ FANFICS:

I’m not a bad man, I’m just overwhelmed ⌇ somno ❪ smut ⨾ drabble ❫

You wanna be high for this ⌇ one too many drinks leave you, house, and wilson a little too drunk—and a little too handsy ❪ COMING SOON . . . ❫

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♯┆ 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 .ᐟ ໒꒱

— ୨୧₊˚ FANFICS:

You wanna be high for this ⌇ one too many drinks leave you, house, and wilson a little too drunk—and a little too handsy ❪ COMING SOON . . . ❫

— ୨୧₊˚ AI BOTS:

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recommending the Dead Poets Society to everyone I meet with the jolliest smile that you'll ever see on my face because I am a little bit silly and extremely evil

happy logan sargeant in an indycar month to those who celebrate

buying you time || part 1

past! neil perry x reader, present! charlie dalton x reader

1960 – A Kingdom Without a King

Welton Academy still stood, unchanged, but it no longer felt like home.

You had returned, though you weren’t sure why. Perhaps it was because some part of you still belonged to the past, trapped in the halls where laughter and poetry once reigned. The world had moved on, but your heart remained behind, tangled in memories that refused to fade.

Neil Perry had been gone for over a year now.

The weight of him pressed against your ribcage, an ache that never dulled. Time had passed, seasons had changed, but grief remained—woven into you like Penelope’s shroud, stitched together by day, unraveled by night.

And Charlie Dalton had been watching.

Waiting.

The boy who had never known patience now stood by your side, silent and steady, never pushing, never demanding. Just… there.

You weren’t sure how much longer he would wait.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

⸻

1959 – The Game

“You don’t have to do this.”

Neil grinned at you, mischief flickering behind his eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You rolled your eyes, watching as he lined up his shot. The Dead Poets had taken refuge at the Dalton estate for the weekend, and Neil had challenged Charlie to an archery contest. A terrible idea, really, given that neither of them had ever touched a bow before.

Charlie leaned against a tree, smirking. “Come on, Perry, show me what you got.”

Neil raised the bow, drew back the string, and let the arrow fly. It wobbled through the air before plummeting into the dirt several feet away from the target.

Charlie burst into laughter.

Neil turned to you, utterly unbothered. “That was just a warm-up.”

You shook your head, smiling. “I think you’re better at monologues than marksmanship.”

He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Lucky for you, I’m very good at monologues.”

Charlie groaned. “Please, spare us.”

Neil ignored him, turning back to you, his voice dropping into something softer. “Do you think I could do it?”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Win the throne.”

You studied him, the way his hands tightened around the bow, the way his shoulders tensed. This was a game, but for Neil, it was something more. A challenge. A test. Proof that he could defy the fate his father had set for him.

“Of course you could,” you said.

Neil smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Charlie noticed too.

Later that night, as you sat by the fire, Charlie nudged your shoulder. “You really think he could win?”

You looked across the room, where Neil sat reading, the flickering light casting shadows over his face.

“I think he already has.”

⸻

1960 – The Unfinished Letter

You found it in Neil’s old copy of Hamlet, the pages worn from his touch.

The ink was smudged in places, as if he had hesitated while writing, but the words were clear.

“Father,” it began.

“I know you will never understand, but I cannot live the life you want for me. I tried. I swear I tried. But my heart does not belong to textbooks and law degrees. It belongs to the stage, to poetry, to the kind of love that makes life worth living. I cannot keep pretending to be someone I am not. I have been buying myself time, hoping I would find another way. But time is running out.”

“I am sorry.”

“I love you.”

It wasn’t finished.

It never would be.

Charlie found you later, sitting on the floor of your room, the letter crumpled in your hands. He didn’t say anything—just sat beside you, waiting.

After a long silence, you whispered, “I should give it to his father.”

Charlie exhaled sharply. “What do you think that’ll change?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

“Then don’t do it.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “You think he deserves this? After everything?”

You closed your eyes. “No.”

Charlie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then let it go.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know how.”

Charlie hesitated before reaching for your hand.

“Then let me help.”

⸻

1959 – The Last Performance

The theater was alive.

The air thrummed with energy, with the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. The audience sat in hushed anticipation, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Neil stood at the center of it all, his presence electric, his voice steady.

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!” he declared, his words ringing through the space.

You watched from the wings, breath caught in your throat. He was radiant, every inch the king he had always longed to be.

When the play ended, when the applause roared like thunder, he found you backstage, his face alight with triumph.

“I did it,” he whispered.

“You did,” you breathed, pressing a kiss to his lips.

And for one perfect moment, the world was his.

⸻

1960 – The Storm

It rained the night Neil died.

A storm, violent and unrelenting.

You had run through it, breathless, desperate, slipping on the wet ground as you stumbled toward his house. Charlie had been right behind you, cursing under his breath, but you had barely heard him.

By the time you arrived, the world had already gone silent.

Neil’s mother was standing in the doorway, her face pale, her hands shaking. She had not spoken a word as she stepped aside, letting you and Charlie inside.

The house smelled of gunpowder.

Of smoke and sin.

You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t cried. You had simply stood there, staring at the body of the boy you loved, knowing in your soul that time had finally run out.

⸻

1960 – The Final Choice

You stood at Neil’s grave, the cold biting at your skin.

“I never thought it would come to this,” you whispered.

The wind howled in response.

Charlie stood a few steps behind, waiting, always waiting.

You turned to him, your voice barely above a whisper. “How did you do it?”

Charlie exhaled slowly, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Do what?”

“Let him go.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he said, “I didn’t.”

You frowned, but he shook his head. “You don’t let go of someone like Neil. You just… learn to live with the hole they left behind.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

Charlie gave you a sad smile. “Not really.”

You looked back at the gravestone, the name carved into the marble like a wound that would never heal.

Neil Perry.

“I don’t know how to live without him,” you admitted.

Charlie took a step closer, his voice steady. “Then let me teach you.”

You turned to him, really looking at him for the first time in months. His eyes were different now, shadowed with grief, but there was something else there too.

Something like hope.

You hesitated, then reached for his hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go of the past.

Maybe it was time to start again.

And as Charlie squeezed your hand, anchoring you to the present, you thought—perhaps Neil would have wanted that too.

It really just hit me that we are living through history.

Even if you are not a Max Verstappen or Red Bull Racing fan, stop for a moment and relish in the greatness we’ve witnessed these past four seasons.

I remember being young and asking my father and grandfathers about Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost and Niki Lauda.

I remember being just old enough to understand the enormity of what Michael Schumacher was able to accomplish towards the end of his time with Ferrari.

One day our own children and grandchildren will oooh and aaah about how we got to witness Sebastian Vettel and Lewis Hamilton and Max Verstappen’s domination.

This sport moves quick. Champions come and go. Drivers come and go. Teams come and go.

So stop for a moment and just appreciate the era of Formula 1 we’ve been lucky enough to live through.

Step 13 || Gregory House & James Wilson

Paring: Greg House x gn!reader x James Wilson

Summary: short blurb about reader's long night routine

Warnings: none

Word Count: 0.3k

༶•୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡•༶

You hear feet shuffling towards the bathroom; pausing your routine you turn to watch as Wilson leans against the door frame.

"What step are you on now?"

You don't answer him right away a little out of embarrassment but mostly because you didn't actually know. However, House seemed to be watching you closely as he answers Wilson's question from his spot on the bed.

"Step 13."

You and Wilson turn to stare at House dumbfounded. He looks up from his book and gives both of you a questioning look.

"What?"

You and Wilson glance at each other before breaking out in a fit of giggles.

"Wow you loooovvvee me!"

House shots you a dirty look but before he can get out an equally snarky remark Wilson is walking towards him.

"It's fascinating that you complain about how long their nightly routine takes, but you know every step. Which means you have to have been watching them closely every night to know their exact steps!"

"Oh come on! I don't----"

"Hey now wait a minute."

You cut House off while walking up to Wilson's side right in front of him and lean down close to his face.

"I always wondered who would replace my products when they were running low. I knew it couldn't be Wilson since he has a panic attack the moment he steps into any Sephora, but I thought you were too "manly" and "heartless" to ever do something like that for me."

You hover your face right next to his ear, "Turns out I was wrong."

You feel Wilson wrap his arms around your waist and rest his head on your shoulder. "Looks like we have a big softy here."

House scoffs at you both and tries to get up from the bed. But you and Wilson are on top of him and are pulling him back down successfully trapping him between your bodies.

You cover his face in kisses and listen to him whine and complain, but when you pull back to look at him, he has the biggest smile on his face.

"We love you, ya big softy."