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gone to the dogs {chapter 6}
Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader
Summary: You and Joel make what you can of the life you lead in the zone, though the thought of more begins to form in your thoughts three years down the line.
Word Count: 5.3k
Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, age gap (pre time skip reader late 20's and joel is early 40's, post time skin reader is 30 and joel is mid 40's), outbreak fic, degrading language, violence, heated interactions, adult language, fighting, references to injuries, blood, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), slight dom/sub vibes, topping from the bottom maybe?, sexual propositions, oral (m receiving), warnings of pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, references to off screen abuse, references to off screen assault (not reader), non con touching (not joel), mentions of past use of narcotics, illegal smuggling, references to death, lemme know if i left any out!
A/N: hi and bye (not back to posting on a regular basis yet but wanted to share this with y'all)
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The ground beneath your feet tears up with the force of your running steps, panic and terror making you numb to the amount of noise you’re making as you try to escape from the man who had separated you from everything you had ever known. A shock of violence for your quiet group as they had settled for the night just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The image of Frankie being slammed into the ground hard and the breath knocked out of him burned into your mind’s eye. Of everyone, the few still left scattered like bugs underneath a log that was plucked from the earth.
They had come out of nowhere, ambushed your little group a mere five miles out from the zone that you had escaped from at the first sign of trouble, of change. It had only lasted two years, the initial set up for protection and mutual residence. Safety in numbers, safety in routine, safety in working together to preserve what worked from a time past and figuring out what worked in the current time.
But it all deteriorated. You had witnessed it with your own two eyes, the fall of what people clung to, the fall of what little relic of civilization had tried to survive. Frank hadn’t wanted to go, always believing that things could get better, that they wouldn’t fall, that people were good.
He had been convinced when you told him about the officer that had cornered you and tried to force himself on you in exchange for a few extra ration cards. His stuff packed in less than a day and a group of three others who he was on friendly terms with quickly gathering supplies when you showed up at their doorstep.
You had been torn from him, voice hoarse from shouting out at the rough treatment. Distracted by the violence that had befallen your group, territory being protected, and people seen as a threat. The pack of food and supplies was ripped from your shoulders as a man took advantage of your shock, of your shouting for someone who wasn’t you. It was the last time you were ever that unaware of your surroundings. It was the moment that changed the trajectory of your life, altered the very person who you were supposed to be into who you would become.
“Now you listen here and you listen good, little girl.” The man’s breath was ragged as he leaned in close and pressed his hands into the soft give of your chest. Fingers curling in a suggestive manner. “You’re either gonna let me have my way with you or you’re gonna be of some other use. Don’t need no one who can’t earn their keep.”
“Then let me go.” Your eyes look past him, to where Frankie is being thrown to the ground underneath the persuasion of a shotgun. His hands are shaking, held up in front of him. Looking straight at the accomplice of the man who had set his sights on you. A spare glance from both of them, then the man is smirking before turning back to Frankie and saying something that steals all the color from his face.
“Not on the table. We got two jobs for you, it’s your choice which one you’re willing to do.”
“Neither.” You spit into his face, the hold he has on your arm tightening and beginning to sting, your skin smarting.
“Cheeky bitch,” His palm is sharp where it lands on your cheek, stinging. He roughly jostles you, pain blossoming. Throwing you to the ground, all you can do is try to keep the trembling of your bottom lip to yourself and the tears watering your eyes from falling. “You’ll learn to respect me, that’s for damn sure.”
He laid himself over you completely, face far too close, his hands running up and down the length of your body. They lingered in places they shouldn’t, fingers dipped underneath the waistband of your jeans and then settled again over your chest where he feels it in his palms roughly. Moving to caress your face, he croons at how young and pretty you are, unsettling your stomach and rousing bile in your throat. All you can do is force your mind to blank and hope that the others got away…
You feel the same tendrils of fear now, as your boots beat into the ground now. There’s an eerie feeling about the early morning as the rising sun paints the sky with deep pink and orange hues, the distant screeching of possessed beings chasing after you. The safety that’s slowly diminishing as you rush around chunks of concrete and avoid spokes of rebar reaching for you.
Joel isn’t by your side, having pivoted when a clicker ended up between you both. There was a meet up point, in case of separation. That’s where you were headed, even as you hear the runners behind you gain speed at the harsh breaths, you’re unable to silence as your lungs burn.
Your pack catches on the corner as you round a building that still remains standing, the fabric ripping and the contents inside spilling out. You trip on a canister of coffee, the roll of it just right to be wrong and you feel yourself begin to go down. A monstrous snarl is far too close and you don’t even think to look back as you use your hands to push off the side of the building and then shove off the pack, goods be damned. Your life was more important.
He would understand, you know he would, but you still lament the loss of the pack.
You’re suddenly pinned to the ground, a heavy weight on your back uprooting your center of gravity.
Snapping teeth and a deep, guttural snarling fills your ear and drives your heartbeat up to a painful notch. Your hands scrape on the earth beneath you as you plant them as firmly as you can and arch your back to throw off the weight. Gnarled, spindly hands rake down the back of your jacket but the lack of nails on the tips of the infected’s fingers allows for you to buck them off of you directly. As soon as they land beside you, they lunge, crawling toward you on all fours in a terrifying scramble.
The gun you had lays between you both, the safety off. Kicking out, the heel of your boot makes a sickly crunch when you land a hit on the side of the infected’s head. The action pulls out a grating howl but gives you enough time to scurry forward for the weapon and as soon as it’s in your grip you’re pulling the trigger once, twice, three times before the thing collapses on its front and goes silent.
But you don’t waste a second, you don’t think you even take in a full breath before you’re back on your feet and running once again. You can’t see the others, but you can hear them, can sense them honing in on the gunfire and their steps are loud as they careen to where you had been just moments before.
You only watch with bated breath as you hear the distant sound of echoing footsteps from end of the hall. The door to the stairwell pushes open, creaking for the barest of seconds until a single hand curls around it, securing a hold on the handle just so and lifts the door slightly to relieve the tension on the hinges. It’s quiet as it slowly swings open the rest of the way and Joel’s form steps through it.
Your stomach swoops and the tense ball of fear and concern eases in your chest. Because for all your snapping teeth and biting words, for all the brandishing threats of your knife and the deliberate pointing of the barrel of your gun, the power in your decisions – you do have fear. For him to transform into something even you couldn’t bring him back from. From him simply disappearing from you in a heartbeat and you’d be left with nothing but a body that was once warm and housed his soul.
Sucking in a breath to center yourself, you watch as he traverses down the hallway, carefully avoiding the little traps and deterrents you’ve set up over the years. Once he’s cleared the distance and through the door to the apartment that is the hideaway and meet up spot, the door is closed and locked securely behind him.
His hands are scrabbling at you, reaching and pulling you nearly flush to him. Joel’s expression is hard, but behind his eyes you can see the worry and concern that he’s feeling. The steel gray that streaks through his dark hair is more apparent in the sunshine that filters in through broken windows and crumbling walls of the hotel lobby. Prominent in his sideburns, the scruff along the curve of his strong jaw, and the dusting of hairs across his chest. There’s water that has built up over the years, from the rain that trickles in, green with a thick layer of film over the top. It’s not an adjustment anymore to reach for him when you’re overwhelmed, though your voice and instincts betray you in snarky comments and biting rebuttals all the same.
“You did good,” He rumbles, voice breathy as he pants to regain the air in his lungs. He had taken longer to make it to the meeting point, but he was here. He was okay. You feel the harsh beats of your heart begin to calm, your own breathing beginning to even as you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the crook there. His large palms are sliding down your back as he kneels. Hooking underneath your thighs as he hauls you into his arms, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist.
“Nasty scratch there,” You notice the bloody line cut into the skin of his chest, where his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his undershirt gone- it’s hanging back in your shared apartment on a drying line from when you had washed it a few days ago. Yesterday’s run was not supposed to drag and turn into an anxious and long overnight stay in the ruins of the city outside of the zone. Not supposed to be a loss, but a win for the collection that steadily grows between two apartments and three partners.
You knew things were getting worse, but this was the first time any run had fallen apart in such a fashion in a long while.
“It’ll heal, they always do.”
He’s littered with them, from runs and trips and even an altercation or two with Bill over the years. But he’s fine, he’s more than fine. He’s…he’s strong, capable, a force to be reckoned with. A big, silhouette of a man that no one would dare to mess with. He’s really come into himself more, defined a clear-cut way of business that he’s taken a more invested front in. You still head the smuggling, the deals, the runs, dictating when and where he and Tess need to be. But he’s definitely the muscle of the operation, the one that people deal with the most.
He's bowing to press his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, spurring hot sparkles to dance along your skin and mingle with the sharp adrenaline that pumps through your veins. Teeth nip sharply at your bottom lip, at cut of your jaw, the column of your neck as he walks you toward the small bedroom at the back of the apartment.
It’s desperate, the way he’s dropping you down on the aged mattress and grasping harshly to flip you onto your knees. It’s depraved, the way his thick fingers undo the buckle of your belt and the fly of your jeans, tears the material over your ass and shoves it to bunch around your knees. It’s reverent the way he skims his palms down the small of your back as he hikes up your shirt and trails them along your sides, feeling the handles of your hips that make him dizzy, the curve of your backside, the ticklish skin of the back of your thighs.
You can’t help the moan that floats from you when he drags his knuckles over the swollen apex between them. But he doesn’t take his time, this round, as you hear the clink of his own belt being undone you can’t help but arch your back more for him. He let’s out a small, breathy fuck as his attention focuses on you and you alone.
The rounded head of his cock is striking as it glides between your slick folds, his skin fire that catches and burns through you in the most delicious way. He’s sliding into you, taking the moment to slow down and catch his own breath, his fingers bruising as they hold tight around your hips.
“Take it.” Joel grunted, hips slamming into the back of your thighs. The heft of his body behind every powerful move pressing you into the creaking bed. The frame was little more than a board of plywood set up on some concrete blocks. The mattress is far too soft from years of use. But it didn’t matter, the only thing that mattered was that he was upright and breathing. It was enough of a comfort in the hiding spot deep in an apartment building that still stands. The windows barricaded and the hallway lined with makeshift sensors to alert of anyone the second they open the stairwell door to the floor. “Such a good girl for me, letting me give you it to you like this.”
His hips slam into you, knocking you forward and one of your hands out from under you. A deep, guttural sound heaves from your chest at the new angle. As you’re bent and arched in a way that allows him to drive even deeper, to fill you even more. The thick feel of him has you fluttering around his base, your clit throbbing at the pleasure that crawls over your skin in a hot sparkling sensation. “Always love to see this thick, fucking ass ripple. How you let me do what I want, give me the chance to show you what you mean to me. See the way she swallows me into her tight, slick heat. God, you always feel so good. Better than any pills, better than any drink.”
He’s never been loud, at least excessively, but the mouth on him lately has even your head spinning. The walls he had constructed around himself lowering when he shared his space and body with you. When you shared your own with him.
You reach into the front pocket of your pants, still bunched around your knees. Taking a pack of travel tissues out and a single one from inside as you move to wipe yourself clean of his drying spend. Behind you he gets up to his feet as well, his thighs protesting the movement, his knees twinging at the weight of him standing. The barely audible pops and cracks of his body realigning itself after the rather intense actions catch your ear as much as it does his. A small groan rumbles deep in his chest as he gathers his breath, face turning away from you as he reaches down to rub at the bends of his knees.
“A little too much for you, hmm?” You needle, unable to help the saccharine coo from your voice as you turn around onto your back and look down to the end of the bed. Your chest is rising, heart racing and body singing as you still feel him all around you, his touch a brand into your skin.
“Ain’t enough, actually.” His teeth glint as he brandishes them at you before leaning over you to playfully nip at the end of your nose. Your eyes light up as a raspy giggle sneaks up from somewhere deep in your middle, the glint in his eyes sparkling as he takes in the mirth his action drew out.
“You say that, but your knees seem to want to argue that.” You lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing completely against him. He groans as your unclothed hips meet his, the press of your still slick skin against him where he hadn’t tucked himself away just yet. Another giggle sounds in the air and he’s mumbling underneath his breath, knowing that you’re trying to get a rise out of him with your taunting. He steps back, putting ample space between your burning bodies before he thinks better of it.
He’s approaching, eyes zoned in on the tissues in your hands as he comes up in front of you. You don’t try to hide your smirk as he snatches the small pack out of your hand, lips curling in an ill masked grimace before pulling one free from the plastic.
His hands are shaky, the adrenaline of the separation and then rather…enthusiastic reunion is draining, leaving him a mess of shot nerves. Cooing, you circle him and back his large frame up to the edge of the shitty mattress until his calves are pressed up to it. Locking eyes with him, you place a hand firmly on his chest and push him to take a seat. He does so willingly, body losing some tension as his backside sinks into the fabric.
“Why don’t you let me clean you up?”
“Already got this,” Joel tries and fails to fight off a yawn as he waves the tissue in front of him. His teeth snap shut with a clack as you kneel in front of him, shoulder your way between his knees, and press a caste kiss to the still swollen head of his half-hard cock where it bobs in his lap. The jingle of the belt he had re-looped is loud as his hips jerk, oversensitive where his pants had barely been pulled back up over his hips.
The pack of tissues falls to the ground as you wrap your lips around him and lick your own release where it saturated his entire length. A testament to what he does to you, what he still does to you with a single look. Casting your eyes up through your lashes, you can see the way his own flutter as he struggles to keep them open and trained on you. His eyes snap open wide when the hands trailing over his middle beneath his shirt caress the jumping muscles in his thighs, one wrapping securely around the base of his cock and squeezing while the other sneaks between your legs.
His deep voice rattles of endless praise and encouragement as you both find another crest together.
You move to pick the pack up from the ground, but his hand pulls you toward him. The action is too quick, your legs too weak for the sudden movement, and you stumble into him where he’s still perched on the edge of the mattress. His hands cup your backside, thick fingers digging into the skin as he holds you in his lap, your hands tight over his biceps for balance. His chuckle is dark as he murmurs something about wanting more time to see how much he can really tired you out before he’s leaning in to kiss you deeply. The scruff about his face is a soft hush against your skin but you revel in the feel of it.
Rough movements for a rough man.
The pressure of his hands disappears for a moment before he’s bringing them down to smack his palm to the flesh. Gasping, you look up at him to meet the playful look of shock on his rugged features.
It morphs into a smirk, eyes calculating as he watches whatever crumbs he can glimpse of your thoughts across your face.
It’s not uncharted territory, it’s not uncommon ground, the crackling intensity of shared desire. It’s a facet of your life now, hidden between the seedier parts of survival, fending for yourself and protecting what was yours every minute of every day. The physical connection you found with Joel is equal parts exhilarating and daunting. A reprieve of the harshness of life in the zone, but it could just as easily turn into damnation alongside everything else.
You lean forward and kiss him deeply, his lips bruising as they move against yours again and again.
He sneaks a hand underneath your chin and nudges your face up more. Eventually he pulls away from you and something different swirls behind his eyes that has your heartrate pick up again. Something you see more of as the days come and go.
There’s a depth to them, beyond his hidden emotions and easily displayed ones, as if he was feeling the minute shift in the air that was beginning to take place. One prompted unwittingly by the thoughts that were beginning to tumble inside your brain, one in particular more than others. The idea was a silent one, a personal one. A way to get out, a way to make your own little bubble away from it all. To be more like Bill and Frankie. You think his own mind may be on the same wavelength or that he at least senses the yearning that is beginning to glow in your chest.
“All you gotta do is ask and I’ll oblige.” The words are whispered, like it’s a secret that they exist. Only for you to hear and only this far away from the place you both begrudgingly call home. You duck your head, to hide the small glint of teeth that betrayed a satisfied grin, his eyes catch it anyway and he dips down to nip at your bottom lip in a teasing manner.
You could feel his eyes on you still, as you detangled from him with a lingering caress to his neck, his muscles twitching at the soft touch. His dark eyes always watching as they took in the way you jiggled a little to get the waist of your jeans back up on your hips, the movement making your chest bounce in your tank top.
“Hmm, sure know how to fill ‘em out.” He’s reaching to trace a finger along your collarbone, thoughts swirling in the brown depths of his beautiful eyes. Watching, cataloguing, cautious and on alert every second of every day. “Zone’s getting worse, with the change of the season.”
“Medical bay is already rationing the antibiotics and steroids. Hell, they have been but it’s more apparent as this…strain of flu or whatever wreaks havoc.”
“Don’t want you gettin’ sick.” You hear the unspoken sentiment in his voice, the worry he holds as you had shared with him one night that you have recurring nightmares of suffocating as your body works against itself. Tries to fight off sickness only to be too weak. He hadn’t understood at first, when you whispered it to him. He had thought you were worried about being Infected, of the cordyceps, which you were. But you had explained that you meant you were worried of finding your death in something simple, something completely preventable. Something that would reveal just how weak you were, how human you were.
He had fallen silent, when you explained it. You hadn’t pushed him to share his own nightmares and he hadn’t dug any deeper into yours, but you know he thinks of the exchange often.
Once you were both fully dressed, he pulls you into a tight hold that you wouldn't classify as a hug, but for him it was. You huff as the air is squeezed from your lungs. Your body tenses for a millisecond before relaxing and bringing your arms around him, around his middle. You rest your head on his chest, his chin going to rest atop it. You squeeze him back, just relishing the fleeting casual intimacy.
Knowing it was only a moment and the gruff commands and barks of words would resume the second you both stepped out from the abandoned building. The way he acted in public so drastically different from how he softened when he was alone with you. It had been years, since that first explosive argument and then whispered plea to let him take care of you, it had been a long journey to get to this point and you’d be damned if anything threatened the life you had made for yourself. The life you had made with the man you leaned into willingly and wholeheartedly.
Sickness plagues the zone, from the youngest to the soldiers. It’s nasty, the strain of influenza, and stronger than the medication that has begun to wane in potency the longer is sits in bottles and foil packets. There are no more shots to take, no more antibiotics or narcotics of medical grade. Unless you were willing to pay big, and even then there was no guarantee it would save you.
There are so many bodies to burn each day, you know it and Tess knows it. But Joel doesn’t speak about it, just wordlessly enters the shared apartment and immediately showers after his shifts. Emerges in cleaner clothing and makes a beeline for the hooch you keep hidden underneath a loose plank in the floorboard. Today is one of those days, he’s off at work to earn enough ration cards to make the deal of getting you and Tess medical attention to combat the sickness you’ve both come down with.
Eventually the sickness has found itself at your doorstep, catching you and Tess by surprise even with the extra caution you both exhibited around others. Makeshift masks, excessive hand washing, but it wiggled its way into your immune systems all the same.
It's been two weeks, neither of you able to work or do much beyond organize trades for him to do until dark. Both of you losing weight, with hardly any appetite and fevers that wane in intensity.
Despite feeling like the very little food you had been able to keep down all day was making its way back up your esophagus, you push yourself up from the couch where you and Tess had been going over inventory of all the items hidden in both your apartments when a soft knock sounded on the front door.
Getting a knife into your palm, a small security, you peer through the cracked peephole. A moment passes as you watch the young girl on the other side of the door fidget in her spot, looking down both sides of the hallway before down back at her interlocked hands in front of her. She looks vaguely familiar, like the girl that Joel had once given a thick handful of ration cards one random day and then every two weeks since then. The same girl that you see around the mess hall and on job sites that have to do with the more lightweight work to ensure the zone keeps up in operation.
He hadn’t said as much, but you know he watched out for her. Tried to prevent her from falling into the seedy dealings and scene of the zone that grew bigger each year. The trade of skin for ration cards and goods, for food, for protection too prominent a life for girls and women alike. Their bodies simply another thing they could offer up in order to survive another day. But you know she’s on his radar, though she had yet to set foot in your apartment or Tess’s.
And you didn’t think it was sexual, you trusted him on that front. No, it was born of a need to protect and prevent, much like the way he watched over you and Tess. Another part of the pack that he deemed important. You had asked, once when you first noticed her eyeing him up across a crowded street, if the older woman recognized her. All she knew was that the girl used to work in the speak easy sometimes frequented. That was years ago now, but you always made sure to save a portion of anything you managed to bake from the sorry excuse of supplies the cards still got you. For Joel to give to her, the errant thought of having her move in with Tess was unspoken but on all three of your minds the worse things got.
“Yes?” You crack open the door and peek through the space, but you’re opening the door completely and ushering her in as you spy the tear tracks that stain her delicate face. She’s so young, you realize, a decade younger than you for sure, two more than Joel. You idly wondered the reasoning behind his soft spot for her, but then you realize whatever spurred it also spurred the one he has for you.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know where else to go. And M-Mr. Miller said to come for him if I ever needed help. Is- is he here?” You turn back to look at Tess, her own curiosity controlled into an even expression.
“He’s run out for something after his shift, are you hurt?” You close the door firmly behind her. Securing the lock in place and taking a deep breath before you reached out to touch a gentle hand to her shoulder. She cowers, a small whimper escaping from between her pale lips. “Do you need immediate aid?”
“N-no, just…bruises that are fading,” She rubs at her shoulder, thin hand reaching up and exposing her wrist and the mottled skin there. Your eyes narrow at the sight, Tess equally, is focused on the girl now.
Fuck, she couldn’t be more than twenty…
“I-I don’t know how I was even going to tell him, so it’s probably good you two are here…” Her voice trembles, fresh tears trailing down her cheeks.
“What is it-” Tess starts, cautiously stepping into the kitchen as you usher the girl into a chair. Her knees knock together as she struggles not to bounce them or cross one over the other. The stilted way in which she pivots her hips tells you more than she had verbally so far and your chest pangs for her. Kneeling down, you gingerly place a hand on one of her knees and assure her that she’s safe here with you both. That she can tell you as much or as little as she is comfortable with, but that you need her name and at least a direction to move in.
“Jean, my name is Jean.”
“Jean, is-who did it?” You can see it in the way she’s moving, the healing that her body is still attempting to do. The bruises that have nearly faded along her neck and the way her eyes cut to every sound that neither you nor Tess caused. The older woman stands at her full height at the shift in your voice from cautious and on edge to thinly veiled anger. “Who hurt you?”
“I-it was one of the guys who I used to work for in the speak easy. He…he cornered me one evening after my shift at the kitchens. He-he-” She breaks down, her sobs creating a valley in your chest that you recall heaving yourself once upon a time. “He did this.”
Something is thrust into your hand, thin and long and plastic. You glance down at it, surprise and anger fighting for purchase as your chest blooms with something akin to fierce protection.
It’s a pregnancy test. And it’s positive.
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He Knows - Simon "Ghost" Riley Pt. 23
Word count: 2686
Warnings: 18+, minors dni, death, use of weapons, use of a knife, graphic depictions of violence, blood, military setting.
They keep him locked away in complete and utter darkness. Not a single sound penetrates the two-foot-thick cement walls. Anything he hears is a fabrication of his mind. An audio hallucination caused by the psychological effects of the deprivation of his senses. I’m sure that’s not the only thing he imagines as his chilled bones rattle against each other and his joints stiffen from the cold. So when Ghost cracks open the vault-like door and flicks on the lights, I don’t doubt my father thinks he’s seeing things. Maybe that I’m not real or that I’m visiting him from the dead or that I’ve come for revenge. All of these could be true.
The frigid air penetrates through my long sleeves. It’s just warm enough in here to avoid hypothermia. It’s like 141 is refrigerating him, preserving him until it’s time to transport him back to their main base. That’s where the real fun will begin. In theory, at least.
Ghost keeps his word and leaves the room only after sharing the smallest nod with me. He trusts me. It’s not his choice to make. It’s mine.
I think I subconsciously knew what had to happen long before I could admit such an idea to myself.
All I’ve ever wanted since this began was for the hurting to stop. Not just the pain inflicted on me, but on every soul involved. I hated the idea of people suffering because of me. Even if they hurt me and even if they hurt others; I didn’t see the point in furthering the cycle.
But that’s just it. It’s a cycle that won’t stop until someone interrupts it. 141 thinks that’s what they’re doing, but they’re just as much a part of it as the Ultranationalists. I’d never tell Ghost that, but I don’t see any other way you can put it.
They won’t accomplish anything by locking him away and torturing him for days on end until he gives them some outdated information on my uncle that’ll just send them on another goose chase. The only thing they’ll accomplish is causing more pain.
141’s solution isn’t permanent enough.
“Y/n? Darling?” My father’s voice is weak. “Is that really you?”
For a moment I think he might cry. He looks broken. Genuinely broken. He looks like I’ve felt ever since I found out about who he is. All this makes me wonder how much his reaction is genuine.
“Don’t call me that anymore,” I respond and it’s enough to tell him that, yes, it really is me. And no, I’m not here to help. I take a step away from the locked entrance into the claustrophobic room.
I wouldn’t doubt these rooms are designed to be small for psychological reasons. The base isn’t lacking space by any means. Some psychologists at some point determined that people are easier to break when they’re caged up like animals.
“Don’t act like that darling,” his tone remains on the verge of cracking. “Can we talk? I want to know you’re okay.”
He’s lying. Something about the squint around his eyes isn’t right. Or maybe I want him to be guilty. Maybe I just want to feel justified. What would Ghost think about his body language?
It looks like it takes a significant amount of effort for him to rise his head. The once gentle, yet strong man I knew has since withered. I want to pity him. Some part of me even wants to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness. To cut him loose and let him take me back in time.
The stronger part of me won’t let that happen.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” I tell him. My voice doesn’t let on how nervous I am. The stress of the situation doesn’t seem to sink in. That’ll happen later.
“Look,” he admits. “I need your help. They’re going to kill me. Then you. We have to do something.”
Suddenly it’s we. Not me. Not I. Not your mother and I. No, she’s in New York. All he cares about is himself. I imagine Ghost standing beside me and striking him for lying. We.
“How many deaths are you responsible for?” I don’t bother entertaining his nuances. I feel uncharacteristically calm right now as I slowly approach him. My hands don’t shake or sweat. My mouth isn’t dry. My heart beats steadily. I am in complete control.
The switch blade weighs like iron in my back pocket.
“What are you talking about?” his mask starts to slip away. I need him to tell me. I can’t do this if he doesn’t admit guilt.
“The shootings: refugee centers, churches, homeless shelters. I saw videos, you know.”
“If you saw videos, what does my answer matter?”
“I want to hear you say it,” my voice is even. I almost sound unbothered by what I’m asking him to admit like I don’t care all that much. “Take ownership of your actions.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he tries to change the subject. For a moment I think he’s trying to make me feel stupid. Then I register something else in his voice. Something fearful and hesitant. What is he scared of? “This isn’t a mistake you want to make.”
“You’re ignoring me. Admit it. Admit what you did to those people. Admit what you did to me. To Mom,” The tips of my boots are just inches away from his chained feet. The air between us is charged with resentment.
“Look at what they’ve done to you, y/n,” maybe it wasn’t fear I sensed earlier. Maybe the emotion sneaking out of his chest was something entirely different. Because if I’m not mistaken now, he almost sounds disgusted. “You’re almost unrecognizable,” The flare of his nostrils confirms it. “Your mother would be so disappointed if she could see you right now.”
I feel a dull twisting sensation in my chest. Like his cold hands have wrapped around my lungs and squeezed them. Breathing feels impossible as the thick muscle twists between his bloody fingers.
My heart pumps faster and molten blood races to my neck and cheeks. My calm composure is slipping and fast.
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” the words snag through bared teeth. How dare he try to guilt me. I haven’t done anything wrong. The only reason I’m here is because of him. It’s all because of him.
“Nothing about me’s changed, darling. Your mother’s always supported me. You would too if you knew where the world was heading.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re looking at it wrong, y/n. Not everything is about making the world better. But our job, our family, will make it more secure. Those people were a threat,” he says matter-of-factly. A threat to what, exactly? They were innocent. They were children.
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like you’re doing this for the greater good. There is no world where mass killings make things better,” I snarl.
“We work for what we want. We take things into our own hands. This little crew over here, 141,” he says with a measurable amount of distaste. “Is using you. Even now, y/n,” He says this like he knows. Like it’s the complete truth and to even think otherwise is utterly mad. “If you think you’re here on your own free will. You’re wrong.”
I blink. His absolute certainty is maddening. Never could I have imagined him to be so disconnected from reality. He truly is a stranger.
“I know why you’re really here, Little Bird, doing their dirty work like a good little whore,” he seethes. There’s a controlled sense of chaos to him that taunts me. I could pull the switchblade on him. I should. Just get it over with for god’s sake.
I close the minimal space between us. Only inches away yet the distance feels like miles.
“I’m not here on their business,” I say between my teeth. As I lean over him, it’s the first time in forever I feel like I am in control. “This all started because of you and I’ll be damn-“
Suddenly the tables turn swiftly and dangerously. He leaps from the chair and his hands are wrapped around my throat in a vice like grip before I can even process what’s just happened. My arms flail and it feels like slow motion as we fall through the air with him on top of me. How the hell did he get out of his restraints?
My head hits the cement hard and the sound of bone hitting rock echoes off the walls. Not just one, but two men are now strangling me and I struggle to make out which one is real.
“This is all your fault,” spit covers my face as he speaks. Redness runs up his throat to his cheeks as his eyes bulge from exertion. My hands desperately grasp at his arms to no avail. My ears ring as they search the floor for something, anything. Then I feel the tiny piece of metal, still in my back pocket.
Ghost’s training kicks in fast.
My brain barely regiseters the object in my hands as I thrust it toward him as quickly as possible while he’s still destracted. My vision is spotting as his grip seems to tighten even stronger. I repeat the desperate action several times more until the blade is lodged in his lower stomach and I finally manage to drag it across diagonally, completely bathing us in blood.
Only then, does he falter. The man’s hands reach for the wound as he crumples to the side and I take the chance to crawl towards the corner of the room furthest from him. I can’t feel anything but the hot, tacky substance that has fully saturated my clothes. My chest quickly rises and falls as my lungs fight to breathe, but for the life of me it doesn’t feel like any air is making it to them. Panic clouds my vision and my sight turns to static. Everything sounds distorted, like I’m underwater. For a moment I think that is exactly what happened and must be why I feel like I’m drowning.
Red emergency lights flash and an alarm blares in the background. In thirty seconds an armed team of 141’s soldiers will barge through the doors to address the security breach. When they see my father’s slumped body and the growing pool of blood around the bottom of his chair, they’ll look to Ghost for answers first, then they’ll look at me. There’s no hiding what I’ve done.
“Y/n, you’re hyperventilating,” his clear, calm voice breaks through the surface. My eyes flicker up to meet his and my whole attention focuses in on him. Simon. I don’t know where he came from or if he’s real, but right now he’s the only person that can save me. “Deep breaths sweetheart, we don’t have long before they’re here,” his gloved hands cup my bloodied cheeks. I almost don’t notice his skull mask. It’s not the scariest thing in the room anymore. I am.
I nod and Simon continues, “breathe with me y/n. Ready?” he searches my face before deeply breathing in, “and out,” he says through a deep exhale. “Keep breathing. You’re doing good, but I need you to listen very carefully about what is going to happen next,” I nod again and push through another wave of anxiety.
“A team of men is going to detain you and you’ll be brought to the med center. Once you’re cleared Price will have you locked in your room. You won’t get to see me again, but I’ll be watching, okay? You’ll stay there for a few days while the higher-ups have meetings, then eventually discharge you and put you under protective services,” Ghost’s thumb gently rubs back and forth, spreading blood across my cheek. I finally come to terms with what he’s saying. I won’t be able to see him again. They’ll have assumed he had something to do with this. Otherwise, how’d I get the knife? How’d I get through security? They’ll know it was him and they’ll punish him for it.
“But you-” My voice cracks.
“I’ll be alright y/n,” Simon is so calm that I can’t help but belive him.
I want to lean into his embrace, to feel his arms fully encompass my shaking frame and fully disappear into him. Does he mean it when he says I won’t get to see him again? My already clenched heart twists. How am I supposed to just accept that? There has to be something we can do.
I catch the silhouette of my father’s body from the corner of my eye and feel my breathing start to lose control again. I did that. I killed him. Even if it was technically self-defence, my intentions were already set upon deciding to visit him. He almost did me a favour by attacking me.
I’d be stupid to think Ghost and I could have a future after I’ve committed such a heinous crime.
In the distance I hear quickly approaching footsteps as a crew of men, armed and ready, sprint down the hall towards our direction.
“Simon, I-” my voice drifts off. There’s so much I need to tell him, but I’m at a loss. Under the mask, his eyes are calm. He knows. He always has.
“I know y/n,” his voice is low with remorse. The air is still. The alarm blares in the background and our faces are illuminated by the flashing red. My last ounce of hope is suspended by a delicate thread in the space between us. “Me too,” Simon’s brows furrow as he looks me over one sorrowful last time. His shoulders heave as he prepares himself for what he has to do next.
Ghost shifts back as he rises to his full height. The automatic riffle that is often clipped to his hip is taken into both hands and aimed directly at my heart.
“Simon?” my voice trembles. He isn’t there.
“Toss the weapon to the side and put your hands behind your back,” Ghost commands. He doesn’t have to yell or threaten me. I defeatedly do exactly as he says.
The sounds of the soldiers grow louder. Their feet loudly echo through the cement halls. The rattle of their equipment can be heard over the alarm as the leader of the crew yells something indiscernible.
Six more weapons are aimed at my chest as they storm the room. Five of the faceless, towering figures line the wall, completely surrounding me. The last one approaches my father, drops his weapon, removes his gloves, presses two fingers to my father’s carotid artery, and checks for a pulse. Thirty silent seconds pass, and nothing.
He is finally gone.
All their attention returns to me. Ghost remains in the background as one of the new soldiers approaches with a pair of cuffs dangling from his hands. He doesn’t say anything as he closes the gap. The metal is cold around my wrists as the cuffs tighten and click into place.
I fight every urge to look at Ghost. All I want is the comfort of his eyes, to know everything will be all right. I can’t risk it, my every action is being monitored. Even the wrong kind of eye contact can be incriminating. How badly will they punish him? My stomach twists at the thought.
The masked man yanks me to my feet. My knees almost buckle with the unexpected pressure. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I nearly fall. I barely have time to adjust before the familiar black cloth bag is tugged over my head.
Darkness.
I’m reminded of how I was brought to 141 in nearly the same state. It feels like so much has changed and yet nothing is different. My whole life was burned to the ground, yet for them, this is just another day. I am merely a small blip on their radar, almost small enough to disregard completely, but not quite.
I hope I never see them again.
#simon riley#cod ghost#ghost imagine#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#he knows#cod
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tonight im making the spanish angry by criticizing barcelona and its use of catalan
how dare i suggest that maybe they should have signs in other languages since they welcome tourists from all around the world
who might like to idk be able to navigate the city without turning to google translate every five bloody minutes or not waste time wandering around public transport hubs confused af
#travelling#spain is woefully bad at signage i found#i didnt make it to bilbao but i bet i wouldve also found signage in euskerra and nothing else#and i get wanting to preserve and use the language#my problem is having signs *only* in your local language#in what world is that a good idea ffs#catalans are almost jingoistic in their fervor its ridiculous
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started on the french dictionary and so far i've only read the front matter and three pages of the A's and i'm already having so much fun. highlights:
the irony of the preface, which basically says, "this is an abridged edition. isn't that neat?", being at least three times longer than necessary
the list of 16 different symbols and their uses in distinguishing senses and introducing distinct usages within the same definition. because that seems like a large number of symbols, i have given myself permission not to comprehend the differences between any of them and just vibe
from the list of abbreviations:
"abusivt: abusivement (emploi très critiquable, parfois faux sens ou solécisme)" 😒 @ french lexicographers: have you heard the good news (of linguistic descriptivism)?
"recomm.: recommandation (dans recomm. off. « recommandation officielle » ; terme conforme à la loi française de 1994 sur la langue)" okay actually @ all of france: get well soon
"abdomen [-ɛn]" do you mean to tell me this vowel isn't nasalized??? sick. twisted. rebellious. can't believe la loi française de 1994 sur la langue has nothing to say about this !
"aber [abɛʀ]" this dictionary tells me when to pronounce the r in words ending in -er. my holy grail. crying and kissing its feet in gratitude
every time the definition includes a word i don't know i can just look that word up elsewhere in the same book i am currently holding!!!!
"abortif, ive adj. Qui fait avorter." told you b and v were related
"abreuver v. tr. 1. Faire boire abondamment (un animal)." this makes it sound like you're force-feeding animals water...on the previous page abondance is defined as "Grande quantité (supérieure aux besoins)" so like i'm getting the sense that you're leading a horse to water and not only making it drink but not letting it leave until it's drunk every last drop in the trough lol
"abribus [-bys] n. m. (nom déposé) Arrêt d'autobus équipé d'un abri" ok cute.
the example it gives for abruti is "Espèce d'abruti !" folks it don't get any frencher than that.
#so conflicted about france's attitude toward anglicisms in particular. like on the one hand i get it and if we were talking about any other#language i'd be like yeah the global supremacy of english & its overwriting and erasure of other languages is a big problem#but this is FRENCH. french! aka the source of the majority of the english lexicon!!!!#hello the normans!!! you made your language the anglo-saxons' problem! chickens coming home to roost et cetera!!!!#if you wanted us to keep our language to ourselves...little late for that dontcha think. ya filthy hypocrites#anyway i don't think the 1994 law says anything about pronunciation (it might idk but it's definitely not the focus)#but i just like razzing the french powers that be over...basically anything i can think of#oh you want me to pronounce this word-final n? that's rich coming from YOU#it just seems so dumb from the outside to be so focused on trying to preserve forever the workings of a highly complicated system#that's not even internally consistent at any kind of layperson-accessible scale#like you think modern french is this perfect specimen when in fact it is a LANGUAGE created by HUMANS and therefore riddled with#idiosyncrasies and vestigial remains of diachronic processes AND THAT IS WHAT MAKES IT SO BEAUTIFUL!!!!!#and that means! it must be allowed to continue to evolve! not to even mention! it's going to evolve whether you want it to or not!#because that's its nature! that's how it works! that's how humans work! that's what we need from it and it is by us & of us & for us!!#french#lexicography#lecture du dico#prescriptivism#my posts#i know i said i was going to wait to read the dictionary until after i read all my other books but i was too excited to wait#and i told a friend about my plan and after the requisite 'yeah that sounds like something you would do you kooky broad'#she was like maybe you should read one letter at a time. like in between books or something. so you don't get bored#and i thought that was pretty smart. so i've started the A's. i'm not in between books i just wanted to start immediately#the problem is this dictionary is only 900 pages long so already i'm going psh. 900 pages? i could knock that out in three months#reading only 10 pages a day. it took me longer than that to read the count of monte-cristo#oh the other part i read today was the appendix on pronunciation. which didn't tell me anything i didn't already know (mostly that#there are still a bunch of vowels i can't pronounce lol) but was still fun to read out loud because of all the times i could be like#well i KNOW i'm not pronouncing that right. it says so right here.#like when it says ne confondez pas pâte et patte ! and i'm like okay well i pronounce them the same. so. sorry#my mouth only makes one of those sounds. and they sound identical to me. my b my b
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important ! In recent years especially this year I’ve noticed a lot that the internet language picked up so many Islamic phrases and, from a muslim perspective, it makes the internet a little more welcoming. the thing is, a lot of the time with Islamic phrases you have to be careful about when and where to say them they hold their own weight and demand their own respect so here is a list explaining each phrase and some notes about it.
In sha allah
It means “ If God wills “. It’s mostly a response that can mean yes or no. If someone asks you to do something you can say in sha allah as in “ I heard you and I’ll try to do itc but I can’t claim that It will happen “ . Muslims say it because we’re unaware of what future holds it’s actually blasphemous to claim to know the future, so saying so means “ If it’s the will of god it will happen if not it won’t “ and you’d also say it about future events.
Ma sha allah
It means “ this is what god intended “ and it’s a compliment. Saying so is like saying WOW! But it’s also kind of a prayer of protection? If I see someone with pretty hair I should say “ Ma sha allah your hair is very pretty “ the ma sha allah protects the person from the evil eye. By saying that I’m also saying I’m not jealous I’m genuinely enamored and I don’t wish any harm to go to it.
Astagfurullah
it means “ to god I repent “ or “ from god I seek forgiveness” it’s usually used when you make a mistake but people also use it when they see something bad or when they want to avoid saying something bad. Like once my card refused to work and I’d say that so I won’t say any curse words and to calm down my anger
wallah/wallahi
okay this one is important. This one shouldn’t be used so lightly. It means “ by god’s name “ and it’s basically swearing in Allah’s name. You are only supposed to say it if you genuinely mean what you’re saying. It’s such a heavy word that I only say it very rarely and if you say it and don’t follow up on what you said you have to fast for three days as repentance.
ya allah
ya is an addressing word? Like talking to someone or calling them? Like saying O’ ( someone ) so ya allah means O’ god
Al hamdullilah // hamdullilah
it means ‘ praise/thanks to god ‘ said when something good happens or when you feel relieved about something— for example, my shirt is stained badly and I’m worried it won’t clean well. I clean it and the stain is gone so I say “ al hamdullilah “ kind of like phew!. Sometimes people say it as an answer when they’re asked how they are it can either mean things are good or bad but we preserve .
One more note is that with the name of Allah you should also be careful it’s not supposed to be written on papers that’ll get stepped on or lightly used in art because it also has its own weight it’s regarded heavily. Like even in home decorations it should be elevated and not overshadowed. If I have to throw away a paper I have to sit down and color over the name of Allah or burn the papers so it won’t get thrown in trash.
another note is that those phrases aren’t Muslim exclusive. Some Arab non-Muslims use them as well. This is only my explanation from a Muslim perspective.
Another another note is this is what I can remember at the moment but if you have additions or enquiries let me know
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Duolingo is NOT what it used to be.
“Duolingo is ‘sunsetting the development of the Welsh course’ (and many others)”.
I’ve used Duolingo since 2013. It used to be about genuinely learning languages and preserving endangered ones. It used to have a vibrant community and forum where users were listened to. It used to have volunteers that dedicated countless hours and even years to making the best courses they could while also trying to explain extremely nuanced and complex grammar in simple terms.
In the past two years it feels like Von Ahn let the money talk instead of focusing on the original goal.
No one truly had a humongous problem with the subscription tier for SuperDuolingo. We understood it: if you can afford to pay, help keep Duolingo free for those who couldn’t.
It started when the company went public. Volunteers were leaving courses they created because they warned of differing longterm goals compared to Duolingo’s as a company; not long after it was announced that the incubator (how volunteers were able to make courses in the first place) would be shut down. A year goes by and the forums—the voice of the users and the way people were able to share tips and explanations—is discontinued. A year or two later, Duolingo gets a completely new makeover—the Tree is gone and you don’t control what lesson you start with. With the disappearance of the Tree, all grammar notes and explanations for courses not in the Big 8 (consisting of the courses made before the incubator like Spanish/French/German/etc. and of the most popular courses like Japanese/Korean/Chinese/etc.) are removed with it. Were you learning Vietnamese and have no idea how honorifics work without the grammar notes? Shit outta luck bud. Were you learning Polish and have absolutely no clue how one of the declensions newly thrown at you functions? Suck it up. In a Reddit AMA, Von Ahn claims that the new design resulted in more users utilizing the app/site. How he claims that statistic? By counting how many people log into their Duolingo account, as if an entire app renovation wouldn’t cause an uptick in numbers to even see what the fuck just happened to the courses.
Von Ahn announces next in a Reddit AMA that no more language courses will be added from what there already is available. His reasoning? No one uses the unpopular language courses — along with how Duolingo will now be doing upkeep with the courses already in place. And here I am, currently looking on the Duolingo website how there are 1.8 million active learners for Irish, 284 thousand active learners for Navajo, and even 934 thousand active learners for fucking High Valyrian. But yea, no one uses them. Not like the entire Navajo Nation population is 399k members or anything, or like 1.8 million people isn’t 36% of the entire population of Ireland or anything.
And now this. What happened to the upkeep of current courses? Oh, Von Ahn only meant the popular ones that already have infinite resources. Got it. Duolingo used to be a serious foundational resource for languages with little resources while also adding the relief of gamification.
It pisses me off. It really does. This was not what Duolingo started out as. And yea, maybe I shouldn’t get invested in a dingy little app. But as someone who spent most of her adolescence immersed in language learning to the point where it was literally keeping me alive at one point, to the point where languages felt like my only friend as a tween, and to the point where friendships on the Duolingo forums with likeminded individuals my age and other enthusiasts who even sent me books in other languages for free because they wanted people to learn it, the evolution of Duolingo hits a bitter nerve within me.
~End rant.
#duolingo#langblr#huge language rant feel free to skip#evolution of duolingo#luis von ahn#duolingo welsh course#language learning
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Facts about in-game Yuu (Twisted Wonderland):
NOTES:
This is an ongoing list and will be updated with new information. I'm not caught up w/ chap 6 and I'm not very perceptive. This list is so long because of all the people who commented/sent asks, so thank you Last but not least, some of these might be a stretch/be slightly incorrect so bare w/ me plz :] More Yuu facts [ ONE / TWO ] <- not mine
They've been good friends with Heartslabyul ever since Book 1.
They're forgiving/don't hold any bad blood with the people who've overblotted (at least on the outside).
According to the Harveston event, they can play the flute.
They don't like mentioning that they might return to their world (Deuce's Wishing Star vignette).
Many people consider them a "goody-two-shoes" (Leona, Ruggie).
A good listener.
Based on Malleus' interactions with them, Yuu talks to him a lot more off-screen as he states that he values their opinions.
Loves Grim to hell and back.
It's implied that Yuu invites Malleus over frequently enough that he visits unprompted.
They can be snarky and brutally honest when they're pushed into it.
Comes up with stupid plans that nobody believes will work but it somehow does.
They're insecure about not having any magic.
They want to be able to help their friends.
Has a sense of self-preservation.
Does not actively seek out danger (*cough* om mc *cough*).
They've cleaned up Ramshackle since living there, however, it still looks "abandoned & ancient" on the outside.
Crowley doesn't give them more money than "needed".
Silver states that Yuu is good with swords (PE Uniform).
Both Jamil and Silver seem to think that Yuu is somewhat weird/strange.
They don't know much about mushrooms (Floyd's Camp Vargas vignette).
They're very patient.
Used to be afraid of ghosts until they got to Twisted Wonderland.
They adapt to new/difficult situations quickly and calmly.
They don't complain much.
Very much so the silent type.
The audience doesn't really see anyone helping them out with their situation, so I assume they fix most of their problems themselves.
They don't have any memories of the Great Seven before coming to Twisted Wonderland.
Fluctuates between being observant and not noticing really basic stuff.
Doesn't hesitate to say cheesy things.
Keeps calm in harsh situations.
They know how to play a blowing horn (White Rabbit Event).
Good with instruments.
Not a very good singer (NRC Uniform).
It's implied that they have high stamina.
They're interested in horseback riding and wants to play soccer with Sebek (PE Uniform).
They recommend a few books to Sebek, implying that they read in their free time.
They're short in comparison to Floyd (he calls them Shrimpy).
Grim comments that they're shorter than Vil.
Crowley mumbles that Yuu looks effeminate.
They're a bit of a romantic since they seem to often ask about love stories/fairy tales (Epel & Jade chats).
They have a habit of poking, tugging, tickling and just touching people in general. This is proven through the Home Screen character interactions, so their love language seems to be physical touch.
They get scared easily but is bad at scaring others (Halloween voice lines).
Vil notes that their uniform is baggy.
Malleus says that Yuu has gotten better at dancing (Masquerade Event).
It's implied that Yuu is good/decent at cooking since they have to make meals for both themself and Grim every day.
Yuu is decent at basketball (Ace Halloween).
Deuce remarks about a tiny piece of furniture in Ramshackle and asks if it's for Grim, meaning Yuu makes small furniture for him.
They're a good photographer.
Takes part in photography competitions (Rook Port Fest).
It's implied that Yuu carries their ghost camera everywhere because Crowley constantly makes them record events.
It's said that the game cards are actual photos that Yuu took with the ghost camera. [I don't know if this is true but a lot of people have said so]
Most, if not all the characters tell Yuu to hurry up when choosing a class, which suggests that they're indecisive.
Ace, Deuce and Cater tell Yuu to relax during classes or else they'll run out of energy.
Jack says that he got tips from Yuu while he was working in Monstro Lounge, implying that Yuu might've worked in customer service before (Book 3).
According to Grim, they have a hard time saying no to people, but when they absolutely need to-- they're very serious and a bit intimidating. "You're a real sap sometimes, you know that? Then again, when you bare your teeth it's no joke."
While they won't say no to helping others, they prefer to keep to themselves and avoid drama.
Yuu is sometimes a bit distrustful of Ace and thinks he's tricking them if he offers to do anything nice (2024 Player Birthday Greetings).
It doesn't take much to make them happy. (Deuce & Idia 2024 Player Birthday Greetings).
They became nervous when Riddle invited them to a salon for their birthday. Riddle response saying "I'll be right there with you, and will instruct you in etiquette every step of the way."
They're competitive in class-- at least when it comes to Jack (2024 Player Birthday Greetings).
They took chess lessons to try and beat Leona in a match (2024 Player Birthday Greetings).
For their birthday, Yuu asks Azul to get something that's supposedly hard for an average collector to acquire.
They're surprised when Kalim gifts them a pop-up card for their birthday.
They own a pair of fingerless gloves (gifted by Epel).
They personally invited Vil over for their birthday party and made sure to have healthy food options for him.
Not very close with Idia.
Owns a glass tumbler that reads 'Happy Birthday!' (gifted by Ortho).
Lilia gives them a CD with his screamo performances.
They were gifted so many presents on their birthday that they had trouble carrying the gifts around. (Malleus 2024 Player Birthday Greetings).
#twst#twisted wonderland#twst wonderland#twst disney#disney twst#twst yuu#twst mc#twst x reader#twst x yuu#twst x you#twst fluff#twst angst#twst fanfic#twst imagines#twst hcs#twst headcanons#twisted wonderland imagines#twisted wonderland x reader#twst crack#twst incorrect quotes
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Mr. Flanagan, I’d like to ask a question and I deeply hope that it does not offend or upset you. I am strongly considering canceling my Netflix subscription due to their new password sharing policy. However, Midnight Mass is one of my favorite shows of all time and I know it isn’t available on DVD, and I’m also profoundly anticipating your take on my favorite Edgar Allen Poe story. So I wanted to ask your take on people accessing your work through, uh, other means. If it’s something that’s offensive to you or will harm you or the other people who work so hard on these shows, I’ll happily keep my Netflix just so that I can keep supporting your work. I respect you far too much as an artist to do otherwise.
Again, I really hope I’m not upsetting you by asking this question. Thank you for everything, and I hope you’re having a great day!
(NOTE 6/4/2024: I'm editing this entry because, well over a year since it was posted, some journalists dug this up and used it to create click-bait headlines that are misleading, out of context and artificially combative. While I was of course disappointed over the years that Netflix opted not to release my work on physical media, I never experienced any hostility or aggression in those discussions, and I sincerely regret the manner in which this post was used in the press this week.)
Hi there - no offense taken whatsoever, in fact I think this is a very interesting and important question.
So. If you asked me this a few years ago, I would have said "I hate piracy and it is hurting creators, especially in the independent space." I used to get in Facebook arguments with fans early in my career when people would post about seeing my work on torrent sites, especially when that work was readily available for rent and purchase on VOD.
Back in 2014, my movie Before I Wake was pirated and leaked prior to any domestic release, and that was devastating to the project. It actually made it harder to find distribution for the film. By the time we were able to get distribution in the US, the film had already been so exposed online that the best we could hope for was a Netflix release. Netflix stepped in and saved that movie, and for that I will always be grateful to them.
However...
Working in streaming for the past few years has made me reconsider my position on piracy.
In the years I worked at Netflix, I tried very hard to get them to release my work on blu-ray and DVD.
It became clear very fast that their priority was subscriptions, and that they were not particularly interested in physical media releases of their originals, with a few exceptions.
While companies like Netflix pride themselves on being disruptors, and have proven that they can affect great change in the industry, they sometimes fail to see the difference between disruption and damage. So much that they can find themselves, intentionally or not, doing harm to the concept of film preservation.
The danger comes when a title is only available on one platform, and then - for whatever reason - is removed.
We have already seen this happen. And it is only going to happen more and more. Titles exclusively available on streaming services have essentially been erased from the world. If those titles existed on the marketplace on physical media, like HBO's Westworld, the loss is somewhat mitigated (though only somewhat.) But when titles do not exist elsewhere, they are potentially gone forever.
The list of titles that have been removed from streaming services is growing.
I still believe that where we put our dollars matters. Renting or buying a piece of work that you like is essential. It is casting a vote, encouraging studios - who only speak the language of money - to invest more effort into similar work. If we show up to support distinct, unique, exciting work, it encourages them to make more of it. It's as simple as that. If we don't show up, or if they can't hear our voice because we are casing our vote "silently" through torrent sites or other means - it makes it unlikely that they will take a chance to create that kind of work again.
Which is why I typically suggest that if you like a movie you've seen through - uh - other means, throw a few dollars at that title on a legitimate platform. Rent it. Purchase it. Support it.
But if some studios offer no avenue for that kind of support, and can (and will) remove content from their platform forever... frankly, I think that changes the rules.
Netflix will likely never release the work I created for them on physical media, though I'll always hold out hope.
Some of you may say "wait, aren't The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor available on blu-ray and DVD?" Yes, they are, because they were co-produced with Paramount, and I'm grateful that Paramount was able to release and protect those titles. (I'm also grateful that those releases include extended cuts, deleted scenes, and commentary tracks. There are a number of fantastic benefits to physical media releases.)
But a lot of the other work I did there are Netflix originals, without any other studio involvement. Those titles - like Midnight Mass, The Midnight Club, and the upcoming Fall of the House of Usher - along with my Netflix exclusive and/or original movies Before I Wake and Gerald's Game - have no such protections. The physical media releases of those titles are entirely at Netflix's discretion, and don't appear to be priority for the studio at this time.
At the moment, Netflix seems content to leave Before I Wake, Gerald's Game, Midnight Mass, and The Midnight Club on the service, where they still draw audiences. I don't think there is a plan to remove any of them anytime soon. But plans change, the industry changes.
The point is things change, and each of those titles - should they be removed from the service for any reason - are not available anywhere else. If that day comes - if Netflix's servers are destroyed, if a meteor hits the building, if they are bought out by a competitor and their library is liquidated - I don't know what the circumstances might be, I just know that if that day comes, some of the work that means the most to me in the world would be entirely erased.
Or, what if we aren't so catastrophic in our thinking? What if it the change isn't so total? What if Netflix simply bumps into an issue with the license they paid for music (like the Neil Diamond songs that play such a crucial role in Midnight Mass), and decide to leave the show up but replace the songs?
This has happened before as well - fans of Northern Exposure can get the show on DVD and blu-ray, but the music they heard when the series aired has been replaced due to the licensing issues. And the replacements - chosen for their low cost, not for creative reasons - are not improvements. What if the shows are just changed, and not by creatives, but by business affairs executives?
All to say that physical media is critically important. Having redundancy in the marketplace is critically important. The more platforms a piece of work is available on, the more likely it is to survive and grow its audience.
As for Netflix, I hope sincerely that their thinking on this issue evolves, and that they value the content they spend so much money creating enough to protect it for posterity. That's up to them, it's their studio, it's their rules. But I like to think they may see that light eventually, and realize that exclusivity in a certain window is very cool... but exclusivity in perpetuity could potentially limit the audience and endanger the work itself.
#midnight mass#haunting of hill house#the midnight club#the haunting of bly manor#physical media#streaming#piracy#torrent#film preservation
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If you’re having trouble picking a language to learn you might want to evaluate why you want to learn a language in the first place
Do you want to do it to connect with your relatives? Because you’re moving to a country where you don’t speak the language? Then you already know what you have to do. Get out there and start watching YouTube videos and bothering your grandma to teach you, silly. Just do it.
If you just want to speak a second language for its own sake and don’t really care what, just pick a language that’s common in your region and/or will help you in your career. These types of languages will likely have local news stations in the language, local people to talk to, local language exchanges, a presence on streaming services in your country, etc. In the US this is almost always gonna be Spanish. Sometimes it might be something like German or Chinese but it’s usually Spanish. I give this suggestion because then your motivation is always staring you right in the face at the library when there’s a whole section you can’t read and motivation can sometimes be the hardest part of language learning. And if there’s a lot of stuff to watch and a lot of people to talk to that can also keep you from getting bored.
If you wanna be quirky or different but still want something easy just pick a language with a lot of speakers that isn’t spoken much near you that preferably also has a large presence online so you can watch and read content in that language. So if you live in the US likely something like Mandarin, Japanese, Portuguese, Arabic, Hindi, Russian, Korean. These languages also have a lot of monolingual speakers so they have a lot of tv, books, and movies made for them and they’re writing in their own language on social media websites.
If you want to learn a dead language decide which ancient culture you’re personally most abnormal about and pick that one. If you’re doing it for spiritual reasons to read a holy book then again you already know what you’re supposed to be doing, silly. Get reading. Find a quirky teacher on YouTube.
If you want to learn an endangered language and/or are interested in language preservation see what endangered languages live near you and if they’re open to outsiders learning them. Local universities often work with minority language groups to make dictionaries and they may have a program locally to help preserve the language you might be able to participate in. If that’s not possible where you live for whatever reason, I’d suggest finding one that you just really like and whose speakers are happy to teach to outsiders. If you’re looking for ones with a lot of resources available to you then something like Hawaiian or one of the Celtic languages would likely be your best bet, but look around. There’s a lot of people out there doing the work to make endangered languages more accessible.
If you wanna play on hard mode then pick a language that’s spoken in a country where almost everyone speaks English because you’ll have to defeat the locals in 1v1 combat before they’ll let you speak to them in their own language. So basically learn a Scandinavian language.
If you want to learn a conlang (why?) then decide which kind of nerds you want to make friends with. If you want to make friends with regular nerds, learn something like elvish or Klingon. If you want to make friends with people that just like conlangs, learn Esperanto. These are generally the most active conlang communities. If you want to just learn a language in a week and only sort of approximately say what you mean then learn toki pona.
If you’ve fallen hard in love with a language then pick that one. It doesn’t matter if it’s impractical or you don’t have a concrete reason. If you know that your love for that language and its culture is enough to keep you going then it’ll keep you going. You’ll find resources if you’re determined enough. Go. Be free.
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I wanted to make a very blunt post about hearing people using sign languages for speech loss episodes because I think a lot of people really need to hear this.
..... I really do not know what you guys are expecting to get out of sign language as an alternative to speech
let's start with some facts:
sign languages are their own distinct and separate languages from spoken language. ASL is not English with your hands, ISL is not Irish with your hands, and so on and so forth.
sign languages have their own unique vocabularies, grammar, and syntax
learning a sign language is exactly as hard as learning a spoken language. the idea that learning a sign language is easier is a myth. it is a second language and will be as difficult to learn as every other second language
sign languages rely on a complex system of facial expressions for grammatical reasons. facial expressions are not optional. [PT: facial expressions are not optional.] you will not be understood without facial expressions
from my understanding the majority of people who experience speech loss episodes lose their ability to speak because they are overwhelmed, overstimulated, upset, tired, or otherwise in a state that's upsetting or overwhelming. from my understanding, the majority of people who experience speech loss episodes are losing their ability to use language, they are not losing their ability to use their mouth.
if you are not losing speech in a way that exclusively affects your mouth then a sign language will not help you. full stop.
[PT: if you are not losing speech in a way that exclusively affects your mouth then a sign language will not help you. full stop.]
as I mentioned above a sign language is a second language for you* unless you have grown up signing you will be stuck translating your thoughts into a second language. if you're struggling to use language you will only struggle more to use a second language. it's like if you were monolingual English speaker and you lost speech and decided the solution would be to try speaking Spanish instead.
*okay, there are hearing people who learned sign as a first language**, but that is not the majority of you
**baby sign is not sign as a first language
I also feel like a lot of people seem to forget the experiences of Deaf autistic people when they're trying to figure out using sign language as an alternative to speech during speech loss episodes. Deaf people lose speech too. [PT: Deaf people lose speech too.] as it turns out the complexities of sign language can become too overwhelming and difficult when we are overwhelmed too, and sign language is often our native and/or primary language. if you are not someone using a sign language as your native and/or primary language then what makes you think you'll be able to communicate with it during a speech loss episode better than us?
you are going to find it very difficult to communicate in a second language when you're losing speech.
now for those of you whose speech loss episodes exclusively affect their mouth:
you are treading in dangerous waters. let's start with: sign languages are not AAC. Deaf people, who ultimately control the sign languages and were the people to create them, do not have a communication disorder. we are speakers of a non-dominant language. sign languages are more than just a communication tool for us, they are also endangered languages and cultural languages. they should be treated with respect in regards to those facts. if you treat sign languages as AAC (which therefore treats them as tools for your use as a hearing person) or outright call them AAC you are disrespecting the language and its cultural significance. if you would not call English "AAC for Americans" do not call sign languages AAC.
if you decide to use sign language to assist you during speech loss you should also be using your knowledge of sign language to protect and preserve this language. hearing people can be part of the Deaf world if they sign. you shouldn't shy away from communicating with Deaf people.
If you decide to use sign language to assist you during speech loss you have to [PT: have to] understand the culture behind the language and treat the language with respect to that culture. Deaf culture is a closed, minority culture. it is not free to take from and use as you please. us allowing you to use sign language is a gift, it is not something to take for granted. if you view sign languages as a tool for your use as a hearing person you are stealing.
but back to practicality, I'd encourage you to use AAC over a sign language. you don't tread the same dangerous waters by using AAC and it will also allow you to be understood by more people. most people do not know any sign language, and most people who do know sign language are unwilling to use it.
if you want to commit to learning a second language in its entirety and want to commit to doing so with respect I will not stop you but you should consider whether your motivations are yourself or whether your motivations align with and protect the Deaf community. your motivations should not be selfish.
[ID 1: a userbox saying "this user is deaf"
ID 2: a userbox saying "this user has autism"
ID 3: a userbox saying "this user communicates via sign language]
#sensory disability#actually autistic#ActuallyAutistic#speech loss#actually Deaf#ActuallyDeaf#neurodivergent#autism
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☆ boynextdoor reaction to you biting them
requested: no
genre: fluff ig?
warnings: none that i can think of
word count: 1.1k
a/n: more self indulgent things because I have a biting problem.
sungho:
gobsmacked
yk that really shocked face he makes where his mouth is open and his eyes are wide?
that's his face when he realises you bit him
it's a light bite but it's unexpected
you two are in the lower homes living room just chilling. sungho is playing fifa while you just mindlessly scroll on your phone. eventually you get tired of your phone and now you need your boyfriends attention. but sungho is locked in on the game and you know simply asking for his attention wouldn't work. so naturally you do what must be done. and you bite his arm. you bit him lightly but you've never bitten him before so man was s h o c k e d. he looks towards you eyes wide, mouth open and then looks at his arm, then back at you.
"hi"
"hi? did you just bite me?"
"mhm"
"why?"
you bit him again and cuddled up in his side 😌
riwoo:
goes silent
riwoo.exe has stopped responding
like remember the funnextdoor episode where he went quiet and woonhak was like "riwoo is trying to think of something funny to say"
kinda like that
riwoo gives me yapper vibes so...
you two are sitting at the table in the kitchen just enjoying some snacks while talking about your day. he's probably telling you about a new dance he's learning or something stupid that happened at dance practice. you're just listening and watching your absolute cutie patootie of a boyfriend yap away. as he's doing this you cant help but notice how cute his cheeks look. and how biteable they look.... and so to preserve your own sanity you do just that. you bite his cheek 😌. following your bite all you hear is, well, nothing. sanghyeok is just sitting staring at you with wide eyes, bite unfinished. man is shocked, flustered, flabbergasted and so much more
"riwoo?"
"..."
"baby?"
"..."
"sanghyeok?"
"..."
jaehyun:
menace pt1
bros probably going to start singing bite me ngl
but we know hes a dramatic pookie
so that too
you and jaehyun are in his room. hes studying some english. youre having the time of your life, laying with your head in his lap, watching him struggle to pronounce "yacht". you offered to help him but noooo, he can do it. refuses to let you help because he wants to prove he can do it himself and with any other word you wouldnt doubt him. he's quite good at english and hes improving rapidly but the word "yacht"... its a pain in the ass to learn at first even if english is your first language. i mean look at it it should be pronounced "ya ch t" or something. he had first said "ya ch t" and was convinced that's how it was pronounced until he looked at your face and realised he was wrong. but was going to ask for help? no? but manz could NOT figure out what else it could be.
after about 5 minutes of watching him struggle you got fed up and decided to MAKE him listen to you. so you leaned your head down. and but his thigh. surprised at first, bamboozled even. but once he realised what had happened he started giggling soon followed by you. after recovering from the laughing fit, he did not miss a single beat and started singing in that voice he uses to annoy sungho.
"its you and me in this world 내게로 다시 와 tie me"
"seriously? thats you first response?!?!"
"날 구원할 거라면 just come kiss me and bite me"
"sure but say 'yacht' first"
"HEY"
taesan:
bites back.
thats it
thats the headcanon
jk but fr
i cant find it now but theres a video of taesan biting jaehyun and bro just nommed in jaehyuns arm
which is why im 100% sure he would bite back
honestly wouldnt even be phased
its probably your love language as a couple
you and taesan were at the studio, taesan was working on some new songs while you sat nearby doing some assignments. eventually the words you were typing started floating around the screen and you didnt even know what you were typing so you decided it was a good time to take a break. but if youre taking a break then taesan should also be taking a break because 1. he was probably tired too and 2. how dare he work while youre taking a break instead of giving you attention. so you decided to give him a few minutes so that he wouldnt lose his train of though. plus he looks so cute when hes focused so...
HOWEVER a few minutes turned into 10 minutes. 10 minutes turned into 20. and eventually half an hour passed. you realised taesan wasnt about to take a break any time soon, so you decided to take matters into your own hands. you slowly crept up behind him and attacked. bro did not move. just looked at you smiled and pulled you into his lap. you may not have gotten a reaction but hey, now you get attention from your boyfriend. with no consequences... right? err❌ wrong.
"whats up?"
"you should take a break youve been working for so long. nonstop"
"okay"
"youre just going to listen? that easily?"
"hmm?" *bites you*
leehan:
menace pt2
takes it as an opportunity to flirt
teases you to no end
i keep thinking about that boynextdoor 2night video where while spinning bottle the jaehyun told him he was doing it the wrong way
and he was like ill do it how i want
so like
think abt that
you and leehan were watching a kdrama while cuddling. initially both of you were very invested and you kept fangirling over the male lead (me every time i watch unlock my boss) and leehan would laugh and jokingly complain about it. after about two more episodes you noticed that leehan hadnt said anthing in a while so you looked towards him and saw that he had dozed off. but this was unacceptable how could he leave you to watch people try to kill each other on your own. no absolutely not. this was not allowed. how dare he. you first tried slightly shaking him awake, it woke him up but he just mumbled something unintelligible and closed his eyes again. time for plan b. biting him.
it worked. quite well. too well.
"why???"
"why what?"
"baby i know i taste good but if youre hungry the gummies might serve you better"
"you left me alone to watch mr.oh be mean to my husband 😔"
"hey its ok i didnt hear anything he said about me~"
"oh god you know what go back to sleep"
#boynextdoor#boynextdoor x reader#bnd#boynextdoor fluff#boynextdoor imagines#boynextdoor reactions#bnd x reader#park sungho#sungho#sungho x reader#riwoo#riwoo x reader#myunjae#myung jaehyun x reader#taesan#taesan x reader#leehan#leehan x reader#lee sanghyeok x reader#han dongmin x reader#kim donghyun x reader#lee sanghyeok#han dongmin#kim donghyun#bnd fluff#bnd fanfic#bnd fic#boynextdoor fanfic#boynextdoor fic#bnd reactions
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what are your most favorite tropes? :3c
IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED:
Near death experiences
Emotional revelations due to said near death experiences
Enemies to Friends to Lovers
Mutual Pining but they believe its unrequieted
"you're my worst enemy but you're so important to me"
Drunk chapter where at least One fist fight happens
Bridal carry after someone gets injured
Slow Burn...of course
"i got you this gift because it benefits me and im not telling you how" (the benefit is seeing the other person enjoy the gift)
Force Alliances or Temporary Truces
"I don't like killing but I'll do it for you"
"I prefer to kill my problems but I won't, for you."
Or: "This person has no idea how many people I've killed in order to protect or provide for them and I'm going to keep it that way."
Mean or Villian Character is actaully a really good Sibling/Parent/Child,ect and has someone they care about
Or better, Villian character adopts child AND is a good parent
Everyone knows the pairing likes each other except for the pairing
Temporary (or non-temp)Amnesia
"I learn your favorite things because I plan to use them against you one day" (proceeds to not do that) (proceeds to get them food or items that persons likes just because they like them)
Breaking and Entering. Literally.
Person A is in love, Person B says they're not but they're 10x times worse actaully
Slip-of-the-tongue/Accidental confessions. Doesn't have to be love confessions but just "whoops i was not supposed to say that"
Biting as a love language
One is feral and bloodthirsty but is put in the position of 'protecting an idiot' because the other is also feral and has no self-preservation. Both characters must be badass, just equally stupid
Kiss on the head/cheek while the other person is sleeping
Bloodstained kiss
Heat-of-battle confession about something
Protagonist refusing to become villian or repeat villian mistakes, not in a 'owo i cant do that its bad' and more like 'fuck you you dont get to see what you wanted to make of me'
Signifier of 'this is my friend/family/lover'. Could anything between a ring, a jacket over someone's shoudlers or scent marking, anything
"if im immortal, then you gotta be too or we both dyin"
Knight x Their Charge
Human x Non-Human
Sunshine x Grump
Character that looks sooooo cute. Oh he's a little fucked up actaully
"ahhaha he's such a freak haha. i need him carnally."
They are mortal enemies. They are also best friends.
Hostage / Rescued trope plus Hostage / Doesn't get to rescue because the hostage killed everyone already
Plot info that's missing that's vital to the story and it's revealed that One of the pairing or someone in the group knew the info the entire time
"I said mean things to you because I hate you, so why am I feeling guilty now"
There was only One Bed
Really competent and scary character is really GOOD at a harmless and charming small hobby completely uncharacteristic to their public persona
Nightmares. And then sleeping in the same bed because of nightmares
Cultural differences / Language Barrier
Character gets so surprised flustered they trip over something or break something and it topples and it starts a chain reaction like a cartoon
There are more but these are some of which I can remember off the top of my head. I've written many of these myself in several of my stories and will continue to do so until the end of time, esp my faves
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Have a request for bartender!reader ! What if readers ex boyfriend reached out to her and was trying to get her back and Rafe catches wind of it? Something along those lines
thank you for the request!!! love writing a little jealous rafe. hope you like it! 🩵
when you say you love me, know i love you more - r.c
pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)
Rafe stood at the edge of the beer pong table, a cocky grin tugging at his lips as he lined up his shot. His arm stretched out, elbow angled just right, ready to sink the ping-pong ball in one of the red cups sitting across the table. He had already sunk three cups in a row, and Kelce was losing his mind over it.
“Come on, man, don’t choke,” Kelce teased.
“I don’t choke,” Rafe shot back, his eyes flicking up toward the cup before he tossed the ball. It arced through the air, spinning before landing with a satisfying plop into the last cup on the opposing side. Kelce whooped and threw his hands in the air while Rafe just smirked, acting like it was nothing.
“Game over,” Rafe muttered, turning to glance around the room. It was the kind of scene he had grown used to, but tonight was different. Tonight, he wasn’t just here to mess around.
He was here with you.
His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, standing by the bar, chatting with some friends. You laughed at something, the sound cutting through the noise of the party and making his chest tighten in a way that still caught him off guard. Even after months, you still had him twisted up in knots. He could admit it to himself—he was down bad for you.
You had that way of looking at him like no one else did. Like you saw through all the bullshit he tried to hide behind. And somehow, you still wanted him. He couldn’t even remember what it was like not having you in his life. The way you looked at him? It made him feel like he was more than just some rich spoiled guy trying to get by.
But then, over by the bar, some guy had sidled up next to you, talking a little too close, leaning in like he thought he had a right to.
He couldn’t hear what was being said, but the guy’s body language was enough. Dude was smiling, leaning in, acting way too familiar. You weren’t exactly pushing him away, but Rafe could tell by the way you kept looking around that you weren’t into it either. You were probably just being polite, like you always were.
“You gonna shoot or just stand there glaring at that dude?”
Rafe’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Kelce nodded toward you. “The one talking to your girl. Might wanna check that out. Looks like she might need a little saving.”
Rafe’s gaze snapped back to the bar. The guy was still there, still talking, and something about it made him start to seethe. Some random asshole thinking he could just swoop in and talk to you like that while Rafe was right here? No.
Without a word, he pushed past Topper and Kelce, his long strides eating up the distance between him and the bar. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, he wasn’t about to lose his shit—he knew you hated when he got all worked up.
When he finally got close enough, he slid his arm around your waist, pulling you back into his chest without hesitation. “Hey, baby,” he murmured, loud enough for the guy to hear. “Everything alright over here?”
You instantly relaxed against him, your hand coming to rest on his arm as you glanced up at him with a smile. “Yeah, we’re good,” you said, but there was a little tension in your voice. “Just, uh—”
Before you could finish, the guy—who clearly had zero self-preservation instincts—just smirked, like he found the whole thing amusing. “Oh, you must be the boyfriend.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed, sizing the guy up. “Yeah, and you are?”
There was a brief pause before the guy extended his hand like he was being friendly or some shit. “The ex, actually,” he said smoothly, like he didn’t just drop a bomb. “Name’s—"
Rafe didn’t hear the name. All he heard was the ex.
His grip on your waist tightened as he stared at the guy, eyes narrowing. The ex? This was the dude who used to be with you?
You quickly placed your hand on his chest, like you were trying to diffuse whatever was happening in his brain. “Baby, it’s fine,” you assured him, looking up at him with those eyes that always calmed him down when he was seconds away from losing it. “He’s just saying hi.”
Rafe’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything, just stared down at the guy—your ex. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell this guy to fuck off, but the way you were looking at him, the way your hand was resting on his chest, it was enough to keep him in check.
Barely. If it wasn't for you he'd be heading fist up into a fight.
The ex gave a half-assed smile. “Anyway, I’ll let you two get back to it. Just thought I’d stop by, you know, say hey.”
Rafe’s eyes didn’t leave him until he turned and walked away. The second the guy was out of sight, he exhaled slowly, his grip on you relaxing as he let out a frustrated breath. “Fucking seriously?” he muttered under his breath, looking down at you. “That was your ex? I didn’t even know you had an ex.”
And that was entirely his fault. When you first started seeing each other, the thought of other guys being with you made him want to be sick, so he never asked about your dating history. The less he knew the better.
“Yeah, I just didn’t think it mattered. It’s not like he’s been around, and I didn’t expect him to show up tonight.”
Rafe’s jaw flexed as he processed that, his eyes still looking in the direction where the guy had walked off. He hated how that word—ex—seemed to have a hold over him now. It wasn’t even that he was jealous of the guy himself. Rafe knew you loved him. You had made that clear more than once. It was the fact that the guy had history with you, that he had shared things with you before Rafe even came into the picture. It woke something possessive in him.
“When did you date him?”
“I was, uh, seventeen. Maybe eighteen?” you started, your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on his chest. “It was a long time ago.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with that. “And?” His tone was calm, but you could tell by the way his grip on your waist tightened that he wanted more.
You sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let it go. “We broke up when he went to college. He… cheated on me,” you added, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but Rafe stiffened at your words.
“He cheated on you? That fucker cheated on you and now he’s just strolling up, acting like he’s got the right to even talk to you?”
You reached up, gripping his face to pull his attention back to you. “Rafe, it was years ago. He means nothing to me. You know that.”
But he wasn’t letting it go that easily. His hand came up to cover yours, his fingers threading through yours, “Yeah, but the fucking nerve of that guy, thinking he can just show up after what he did—”
You couldn’t help it—you started giggling. Rafe blinked down at you, confused for a second as your laughter caught him off guard.
“What?” he asked, brows furrowing.
You bit your lip, trying to stifle the giggles, but it wasn’t working. “You sound more heartbroken about it than I do.”
Rafe’s expression morphed into one of disbelief. “’Course I am,” he snapped, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He hurt you, 'm gonna break his face in half if he even tries to come near you again.”
That only made you laugh harder, the warmth in your chest growing as you looked up at him. The fierceness in his voice, the way he was all riled up because of something that happened years ago—it was ridiculously cute.
“You’re sooo cute when you’re protective,” you teased, reaching up to ruffle his hair slightly.
Rafe’s scowl deepened, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, “I’m being serious.” His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, his protectiveness practically radiating off him. “No one gets to mess with you. Not then, not now.”
You smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I know, baby. And I love you for it.”
He grumbled under his breath, but you could tell he was softening, his hand running up and down your back in slow, reassuring strokes. “Yeah, well, don’t let that asshole get too close again. I’m not responsible for what happens if he does.”
It made your heart skip a beat because even when he was all tough and possessive, there was something so warm and safe about being in his arms.
“Baby, you’re so serious right now,” you murmured, your fingers absentmindedly tracing little shapes on his bicep. You tilted your head up to look at him, “I mean, come on, you know you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Rafe’s blue eyes flicked down to meet yours, and he raised an eyebrow, not convinced. “Oh, really? ’Cause I’m pretty sure your ex just tried to hit on you right in front of me.”
You let out a chuckle, standing up on your tiptoes to nuzzle into his neck, your lips brushing against his skin. “You know he doesn’t stand a chance against you.”
You felt Rafe exhale as if he needed to hear you say it again just to make sure. “Damn right,” he muttered, “But if he tries again—”
You cut him off with a playful kiss, your lips pecking softly against his, and he immediately melted into it, his fingers pressing into your spine. When you finally pulled back, your lips brushing against his as you spoke, you couldn’t help but tease him a little more. “So, what’s it gonna take to calm you down? Do I have to keep kissing you until you stop thinking about knocking him out?”
Rafe smirked, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I mean, you could try,” his earlier grumpiness gone, “Might take a while though.” His thumb brushed over your skin, and you couldn’t help the way your body leaned into his touch. God, you loved this man.
“Don’t be greedy.”
He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your ear in a way that made you want to leave the party as soon as possible. “I was such a gentleman back there, wasn’t I?”
“Mhm, a real knight in shining armor,” you nodded, but you couldn’t deny how much you adored him right now—especially when he was acting all possessive but trying to play it off.
“You know what they said, a gentleman in the streets, a freak in the—”
“Okay, you’re not drinking anymore.” You faux pushed him away, pretending to be exasperated.
"C’mon, ’m not even drunk," a playful grin spread across his face, "You love it when I’m a little bit of both though."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile pulling at your lips was undeniable. “Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that.”
Rafe just grinned, that cocky edge in his eyes, knowing full well you weren’t immune to him. "You know I’m right."
His confidence was ridiculous, but also incredibly hot, “Alright, Mr. Beer Pong Champ,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent, but the way your body instinctively pressed into his made it pretty clear you weren’t unaffected. “Don’t let it go to your head, though.”
“Too late for that.” He smirked, his hands slipping lower as he pulled you closer. “Besides, I think you like it when ’m a little possessive.”
You bit your lip, “A little, sure. But don’t go getting all caveman on me.”
He chuckled, dipping his head down “I’ll try.”
You swatted at his chest, laughing, “Rafe Cameron, you’re impossible.”
But before he could answer, Topper walked up with that knowing grin of his, clearly having watched the whole thing from across the room. “You guys done playing Romeo and Juliet over here?”
You shot him a look, your cheeks heating up just a bit. “Shut up.”
Rafe just rolled his eyes, clearly unbothered. “Sorry we don’t all have to third-wheel it like you.”
Topper snorted, crossing his arms. “Please. I’m good. Just thought I’d check if you’re gonna join the rest of us or if you’re planning on spending the rest of the night whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.”
You gave Rafe a look, trying to suppress your smile because, honestly, you knew Topper wasn’t wrong. You’d probably ditch the rest of the party if you could.
“We’ll join in a bit,” you said, turning to Topper with a grin, “Once Rafe is done showing off for the night.”
He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”
“God help us,” Topper muttered, but he was smiling. He pointed toward the other side of the room, where Kelce was still hyped up from the beer pong win. “The other team wants a rematch, by the way. Say they’re not going down without a fight.”
Rafe looked over, “They’re dreaming.”
Topper shrugged. “Figured you’d say that.” He shot you a look, eyebrow raised. “Guess that means you’ll be stuck watching him crush everyone for the next hour.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Rafe gave you a playful squeeze, his grin still firmly in place. “You love watching me win.”
“Mm-hmm, sure.” He wasn’t wrong. Once Topper was gone, you turned back to Rafe, raising an eyebrow. “So, are you really gonna make me watch you play another round of beer pong?”
He grinned, leaning down to kiss your temple, “Only if you want to. Or we could get out of here. Your call.”
Your heart missed a couple beats at the way he said it, all suggestive and teasing, making it very clear what he meant. You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes “I think I’ve seen enough beer pong for one night.”
“Good choice,” he murmured, and just as he said it, his hand slid lower, giving your ass a firm squeeze—definitely more than a playful pat. At this point, his touching and the need for constant PDA barely phased you. You loved it.
With one last glance around the room—just to make sure no one was watching too closely—you grabbed Rafe’s hand, giving him a look that said exactly what you were both thinking.
“Let’s get out of here.”
#rafe cameron#itneverendshere works✨#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron x reader#rafe x reader#rafe cameron fluff#rafe cameron au#rafe x pogue!reader#rafe x pogue!bartender!reader#rafe x y/n#rafe x you#rafe cameron outer banks#rafe cameron x y/n#bartender!reader!universe#bartender!pogue!reader universe#bartender!pogue!reader x rafe#rafe cameron x pogue!reader#pogue!reader#outer banks rafe#rafe outer banks#rafe fic#rafe imagine#rafe obx#rafe fanfiction#rafe fluff#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron imagine#requested
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Hellooo!!! I have a Spencer Reid request, but feel free to ignore it if you're not up for it hahaha! I was thinking about BAU!Reader and maybe her and Spencer starting to mimic each other because they've been together for a while and spend so much time together? Like the way they talk, etc! I think it could be so so cute, especially if they don't realize they're doing it and the team noticing it for them? Thank you so much, I love everything that you write 🤍
Thanks gorgeous!
cw: discussion of tongue preservation methods? sorry in advance
Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 560 words
You gaze lovingly at your boyfriend as he goes into detail about how to preserve severed tongues.
“So the fact that this unsub is purchasing equipment actually shows a lack of medical expertise, since he seems to be going overboard with preservation measures.” Spencer’s nodding as he talks, a tiny scrunch between his brows. “It’s pretty silly actually. It’s probably only a matter of time until he figures out he just needs to keep them on ice.”
Rossi’s eyebrows raise, and Morgan chuckles quietly.
Spencer blinks, eyes refocusing as he comes out of his brain and back into the conference room. “What?”
“Did you just say the unsub was silly?” Prentiss asks, and his eyebrows refurrow.
“Did I?”
“Let’s stay on task.” Hotch is all business. “If he were as inexperienced as that would suggest, he probably wouldn’t make clean cuts. This skill level indicates some level of expertise.”
“Well, actually, I’m not sure it would necessarily be medical expertise,” you say, cringing at your own knowledge. “The process he’s using doesn’t sound dissimilar to how I think they preserve cow tongues. Maybe he’s preparing them to eat.”
You’re doing your best not to squirm, and Spencer can likely tell, placing a slender hand on your leg under the table. “That’s a good point,” he says, “he could have experience as a chef or in the meatpacking business.”
Prentiss frowns. “Yeah, but how many chefs know how to preserve tongues?”
“Maybe we could start by looking into restaurants that serve those kinds of delicacies,” JJ suggests.
“Good.” Hotch closes his binder, standing. “Garcia, you get started on that and we’ll touch base with you from Atlanta. Wheels up in two hours.”
“Yes sir.” Garcia looks a bit green—you sympathize—as she hurries out of the conference room.
Morgan’s giving you one of his knowing looks, collecting his things extra slow, until finally you sigh. “What?”
“Well, actually,” he mimics, lips curving into a grin. “You and pretty boy must be getting serious if you’re taking on his signature phrase.”
You roll your eyes, but Spencer smiles, looping his crossbody bag over his head. “Actually, language style matching is only one form of mirroring. If you’re paying attention, people who spend a lot of time together can mirror each other down to their breathing rhythms or how many times they blink within a minute.”
You look at him interestedly. “So what does that mean? Just that we’re spending too much time together?”
The look Spencer gives you threatens to liquefy you with its softness. “There’s never too much time.”
Morgan’s laughter is hooting, and you want to find that as cheesy as he does, you really do, but the place within yourself where you usually reach for sarcasm has gone mushy and useless. You rearrange some things in your bag unnecessarily, head down to hide your blush.
“Wow,” Morgan sighs happily, “I don’t know which one of you is more whipped.”
This would normally be your opportunity to think of a retort, but luckily you don’t have to. JJ pops back into the room, looking frowny.
“We just got a call from Atlanta. The unsub killed again overnight.”
Spencer grows serious. “He’s accelerating?”
“Yup.” She nods. “Hotch wants us there now, so it’s wheels up in twenty.”
You and Spencer nod in tandem. “Sick.”
Morgan’s eyes roll straight up to the ceiling.
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x bau!reader#bau!reader#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x self insert#dr spencer reid#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fandom#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fic
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Thinking about this post. "The only way to make a cell is from another cell" is somewhat of a troubling fact to me. I mean, not for any practical reason, just because it underscores the precarity of *gestures broadly*.
It's like, some people talk about trying to de-extinct the mammoth. And people are trying to sequence the genome of the mammoth, I don't know if they've done it yet. But even if they do, one of the problems with the idea of de-extinction is... to grow a baby mammoth, you need another mammoth! Last time I heard people talking about this, I think they were talking about using an elephant as a surrogate mother. But imagine if elephants were extinct too.
The point is that information is often tied to the systems that transmit it; even if you know everything in the mammoth genome, once all the mammoths are gone there's nothing capable of reading and using that information. Like when you can't read the data on a perfectly good floppy disk because your computer doesn't have a floppy drive.
This is related to why language death troubles me so much. Even the most well-documented languages aren't actually that well understood; linguists have produced more pages of work on English syntax than maybe any other specific descriptive topic and yet still the only reliable way to get the answer to any moderately subtle syntactic question is elicit native speaker data. We know almost nothing, we can barely extrapolate at all! And every language is like this, a hugely complex system that we know basically nothing about, and if the chain of native speaker transmission is ever broken it's just gone.
"Language revival", I mean from a totally dead language, is kind of a myth. It's like the "came back different" trope. In Israel they revived Hebrew, but Modern Hebrew is really not the same thing as Biblical Hebrew at all. I mean in a stronger sense even than Modern English isn't Old English. All the subtleties of Biblical Hebrew that a native speaker would have had implicit competence with died without a trace. All they left is a grainy image, the texts. The first generation of Modern Hebrew speakers took the rough grammatical sketch preserved in these texts and imbued it with new subtleties, borrowed from Slavic and Germanic and the speakers' other native languages, or converged at by consensus among that first generation of children. There's nothing wrong with that, but it would be inaccurate to imagine Biblical Hebrew surviving in Modern Hebrew the way Old English survives in Modern English. For instance, you can discover a great deal that you didn't know about Old English by comparing Modern English dialects. There is nothing you can discover about Biblical Hebrew by comparing Modern Hebrew dialects in this way.
There's nothing wrong with this, of course. I'm not like, judging Modern Hebrew. I'm just making a point.
Mammoths died recently, so we still have (some of?) their genome. Something that died longer ago, like dinosaurs, we have traces of them in the form of fossils but we could never hope to revive them, the information is just gone. Even if we're not aiming for revival, even if we just want to know stuff about dinosaurs, there's so much that we will never know and can never know.
We imagine information as the kind of thing which sits in an archive, because this is the context most of us encounter information in, I think. Libraries, hard drives. Well obviously hard drives don't last. And most ancient texts only survive because of a scribal tradition, continuous re-writing, not because of actual archival. So I think that imagining archives as the natural habitat of information is sort of wrong; the natural habit of information is in continuous transmission. Information is constantly moving. And it's like one of those sharks, if it ever stops moving it drowns. And if the lines of transmission are broken, the information is gone and can never be retrieved.
Very precarious.
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EYES LIKE STARS | 1
banner by the amazing @itaeewon 🌧️
summary. “He was everything you were not. He was perfect—too perfect. Always kind, always excelling, always loved by everyone, even your own parents, like a reminder of everything you weren’t. And you hated this. You hated him. You hated the way he always included you, the way he tried to help, as if you ever needed his pity. He was always there, almost like a shadow you could never escape.
Returning to the town that holds both your earliest memories and silent secrets, you’re forced to confront not only the unsolved knots you’d left behind all those years ago, but the boy who was always at the center of your pain. Whose eyes have always seen right through you : Jungkook.”
title. Eyes like Stars
pairing. Jeon Jungkook x afab reader/oc
status. ongoing
rating. M (18+)
genre. e2f2e2L (you get it), angst, drama, romance, boy next door sorta situation, emotional baggage, slow burn, eventual smut
wc. 9.5k +
warnings. (for this chapter) coarse language, OC being in denial and this is just the beginning LOL , parental negligence / toxic parenting , flashbacks, slight mention injuries (knee scraping) and crying , panic attack :( , oc is kinda.. eh, SOMEONE is introduced 😵��, this is it for the first part, lmk if i missed any other warnings, “english isnt my first language” so can contain grammatical errors, not proof read + the last part omfg
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Some doors, no matter how tightly shut, always find a way to open.
The sun was up after the drizzle, which bathed the town in a subtle golden haze, the kind that made everything feel a little too warm, a little too nostalgic. You walked slowly, almost as if your feet were dragging against the weight of the years you’d left behind. A part of you did not really want to be here, but a greater part of you knew you cannot continue to run away from everything like you always have.
Such a coward.
Your home stood at the end of a narrow lane, tucked away like a secret that had been kept for far too long, to the point you felt like it maybe didn’t exist anymore. The house looked the same, yet different, almost as if it had aged in your absence - funny, because although it looked pretty worn out, nothing really felt off. Or did it? The paint was chipped, the garden overgrown, the lawn and grass both destroyed.
But it was still the place you’d once called home—a place that had witnessed more arguments than apologies, more silence than understanding. You pause, staring at the old, browned door as if it’s a portal to another world— always has been— to a world where you were always second best, always compared, always found wanting, longing, no— yearning for the bare minimum. Your own once called home which always felt like a far distant place for you.
It still does.
The windows stare back at you, blank and lifeless, just like the eyes that used to watch you so closely, judging every move, every breath. You don’t want to go inside, but you know you have to. You cannot keep on running away anymore. You are tired, but you dont exactly know if doing something which has your gut churning with disdain can be exactly considered as rest or relaxation.
You notice that the shabby WELCOME door mat which was once a home for mites is no longer at the front door anymore.
As you drew closer, your eyes involuntarily flickered to the house next door. The garden was well-tended, prettiest of the flowers scattered in the greenery in full bloom, just like how you’d remembered.
As always.
The house stood as if nothing had changed there— as if time had preserved that house and all its memories in a neat little bubble. Always so full of life, always so welcoming. You bite down the bitterness which floats up your chest at the thought. Push down the small voice in the back of your head which insists that you will never be welcomed the way a static house makes you feel.
A part of you, the part you’d tried to bury, kick away— wondered if he still lived there. If his parents still looked out from the same windows, waiting for their golden boy to come home.
Who cares.
You quickly turned your gaze away, focusing on the worn steps leading up to her own front door. Your hand trembles as you reach for the doorknob, the cold metal biting into your skin. You’d previously informed your mum through a text message that you will be visiting them, which you didn’t bother or have the energy to check if she’d actually seen.
Your hand on the knob stills, and you purse your lips in thought. You’d decided it’d be a bit courteous to knock instead of just barging in — perhaps some basic decency to spare — although if it was your own home — as if it ever was. You raise your fists to knock— and the door creaked open before you could really.
There she stood.
The same face that had greeted you with tired smiles and even more tired expectations, back in the days when her face was devoid of wrinkles, and full of youthful beauty. The same person who’d cradled you on her bosom and cherished you; the same person who at least tried to make an effort to mend some broken ties, although when she was very well aware it was way too late.
“You’re back,” your mother said, her voice heavy with something that wasn’t quite disappointment but wasn’t quite relief either. She sounded tired— and your mind partially thought if it was because of you. You really felt overwhelmed by emotions, you really did.
You felt the back of your eyes burn with tears — that familiar feeling which you’d remembered was a staple one when you used to live here back in your teenage days. You wanted to engulf her in a hug and just cry, hoping that you could just, for once, forget about whatever had ever happened, and truly be a child once again.
“I’m back,” you reply, deciding to push aside any fleeting emotions which dared to threaten you. You stepped inside as soon as your mom moved aside and let the familiar scent of home—of old furniture — of broken communication — of forgotten dreams —wash over you.
— — —
Inside, the house was just as you’d remembered it. The wallpaper was still peeling in the corners, the furniture still arranged the way it had been since you were a child. It smelled like old wood, dust, the old sandalwood diffuser — and something bitter that lingered in the air, like the remnants of a fight that never really ended.
The walls seem closer than you remember, the space smaller, suffocating. Everything is the same, yet different, distorted by the journey of time and the weight of all that’s been left unsaid. Was any of the furniture ever even moved ever since you’d left? You’re in doubt.
However, the air was thick with unspoken tension, a tension that had always existed— but was now more prominent, more suffocating. You could feel the weight of your mother’s gaze on you, as if she were waiting for her to say something, anything, to break the silence that had settled between them like thick snow.
Although it’s been so long, surprisingly, you didnt really have anything to break the ice with.
Or even if you did, you didn’t want to.
You move through the house on autopilot, your feet carrying you to the living room where you remember the echoes of your parents’ voices being the loudest. You felt disgruntled — upset, at how memories of your parents fighting are the only prominent thing you can remember vividly inside this house. You wanted to laugh ; you can almost see them standing there, locked in yet another battle of wills, their words sharp and cutting, slicing through the air like knives, and you— you ?
Perhaps standing in some corner with your favorite old teddy bear, covering your ears the best you could, trembling with sobs, wondering if this would ever stop. Their words, though, are like a very vague memory to you. Almost as if someone is tingling a metal glass in the back of your head, far away, and the echoes which reach you are the only thing audible.
They were always fighting, always tearing each other apart, and you were always caught in the crossfire, collateral damage in a war that wasn’t even yours to fight.
But it was you who paid the price, every single time.
You hear footsteps, and your throat goes dry. The realization that you recognize the footsteps is beyond disturbing to you, as the fact that you even know who the owner of the footsteps is.
From recognising footsteps to vehicle horns, you grew up, and this would never not be able to turn on a switch in the back of your head. You knew the footsteps, their urgency, or even their tone, may you be called crazy. And you perhaps are delusional to think that maybe these steps are rather relaxed and slow. . .
perks of growing in a strict family, you guess.
Your father emerged from the kitchen, his steps slow and deliberate. His eyes, now very much lacking of the light they used to radiate, widen ever so slightly, but then again, come back to their usual resting form. Almost as if he tried to mask his. . . disappointment?
You weren’t sure, and his expression wasn’t one of happiness, either.
He looked older, more worn, but his eyes held the same disapproval you had seen so many times before. The kind of disapproval that was never voiced but was always felt.
A kind of disapproval you felt in your veins even before you were faced to force it, almost as if it was imprinted deep in your veins, that no matter what you’d do, you’re going to get this stamp of resentment passed onto you.
“Long time,” he muttered, his eyes flicking over yours as if assessing the damage of the years. The silence which has stretched all over these years. You were surprised that he even decided to speak up, remembering the time when you departed.. wasn’t exactly as serene as a teary goodbye sounded like, but that was a memory you refused to unlock.
“Yeah,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.
You grimace at how dry you sounded, but you couldn’t help it. Maybe because it’s partially the fact that you didn't know what to answer, or maybe because..
Well.
You stood there, the three of you, now, in the cramped living room that had never felt like a home to you. You wonder if it did to them too, or was it just the forced idea of it being a home to rest their heads in made them used to the idea that it was a home. Misunderstandings which haunt you, as their child, you sure are to know that they must haunt them too.
You were someone who tried fixing them, who never once tried to do that themselves, right in the place where it all began, pretending it was home, when all it ever felt like was a place they were too tired to leave.
The silence in the room felt heavy, oppressive, broken only by the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall which seemed to drag time over and over.
It once again felt like their eyes pierced your very own soul, trying to burn you with their gaze.
“I’ll get dinner started,” your mother echoed, turning away before anyone could respond. It was easier, you supposed, to keep busy than to confront the reality of your return.
Or her expectations. Who knows.
You nodded, more to yourself than to anyone else, and followed your mother into the kitchen. You weren’t surprised that your father opted to go outside — a habit you’d recall which was so frequent back in the olden days when everything was a frenzied mess. Either he used to be out puffing out nicotine, or simply. . . didn’t return home until he felt like it.
— — —
The kitchen was smaller than you’d remembered, or maybe you’d just grown up. The shelves were no longer as tall as Burj Khalifa to you, and neither were the long random cabinets— who were the same dull brown, the countertops cluttered with the same appliances that had seen better days.
Your breath stuttered at how even the products you’d seen were the same, not a single new thing filled there— from the good ol’ crunchy cereal cornflakes (which was barely even consumed for breakfast,) or the chilli crisp you’d loved to drizzle on top of nearly any dish you’d had.
Truly, nothing really had changed.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” your mother’s voice reached out to you as you nearly flinched, not having expected her to begin a conversation. She was diligent in her chore; her question was like a soft command which demanded an answer, not looking up from where she was peeling potatoes, with that same old lilac handled peeler.
“Yeah,” you repeat, this time truly not knowing what else to say. To say you felt like a dumbass was an understatement; because truly, after so long, you seem to have lost the spark to even think to answer.
However , you didn’t want to explain yourself, didn’t want to justify why you’d stayed away for so long. You didn’t owe them that. You didn’t owe them anything.
At least, that’s what you told yourself. It felt better that way.
The silence returned, heavy and uncomfortable. You found yourself staring out the small kitchen window, your gaze drifting to the house next door. You could see the top of the garden wall, the vibrant green of the plants that lined it.
It was strange how one small thing could hold so many memories, how one small thing could make you feel so much. Much more than being inside of your own house ever did, or ever could.
Yet, something about it feels different now, like a memory you’ve revisited too many times, its edges blurred with the weight of all you’ve carried inside you for decades.
You can almost see him there, in the yard, surrounded by laughter that wasn’t just his—it was a magnet, he was like a magnet, pulling everyone into its orbit, everyone except you. You were always on the outside looking in, (and it’s nearly ironic how you are now too,) your heart a silent witness to the joy you could never touch, never reach.
Even when he reached out, trying to pull you into that magnetic circle of warmth, you resisted. Your pride was too wounded, your envy was too sharp. How could you join in when every smile of his was a reminder of everything you could never be?
.....
Fuck.
You quickly look away, focusing on the mundane task of setting the table, very well knowing that your mom is gonna do that again. But the curiosity lingered, like a small fucking bug, a small, nagging feeling that you couldn’t quite shake out of you.
You did not want to think about him. You did not come here all the way to remember someone who has always just,. . . you sigh, gritting your teeth. Here were you again, fretting and sweating. Your mind whirred, not wanting to remember the way his smile had once made you feel both seen and invisible at the same time.
— — —
You decide you could take a walk around to fuck around and.. uh, find out, maybe? (You weren’t sure what exactly, though.)
As you maneuver through the hallway, your gaze drifts to the old family photos hanging on the wall. They seem. . out of place, like relics from a time that never really existed, or more like pieces on . . a museum? A museum where no one cared for its content , and everything was just randomly added to make something out of nothing.
You were always smiling in those pictures, but it was a smile that never reached your eyes—a smile that hid the exhaustion inside you. And there, in the corner of every photo, was him.
Even in those memories, those old photos, he was perfect. The golden boy with the bright eyes and the easy smile. His eyes were so bright and full of a happiness that seemed to come so naturally, would crinkle at the corners when he smiled—an easy, effortless smile that lit up his entire face.
His hair, always a little tousled from running around, caught the sunlight in a way that made it glow, adding to the image of him as the golden boy. You remember the way his front teeth, slightly larger and giving him that bunny-like appearance, would peek out when he grinned, adding a touch of innocence to his already charming features. He’s grinning widely in this picture, his nose crinkled up and his fingers poised in a victory sign, aligned to his face, right above his eyes, a smile so infectious that you feel your lips stretch to a smile even before you know it.
Your heart drops to your ass.
You’re smiling.
You can still hear their voices,though. Dripping with disappointment every time they said his name, their expectations pressing down on you like a weight you could never lift. You were expected to be someone’s walking copy— perfect and what not. You were the one who couldn’t measure up, the one who always fell short, who always came last in the race.
You take a deep breath, but it feels like you’re inhaling shards of glass, each breath painful, deep and cutting. The silence in the house is deafening, only the distant noise of your mother chopping up vegetables with that same dull thud against the chop board audible.
It doesn’t take you long to realize that the absence of your parents’ voices is more suffocating than their arguments ever were. You had always wished for the fighting to stop, but now that it has, you find yourself wishing for the noise, the chaos—anything to drown out the silence that presses in on you from all sides.
Maybe you had finally gone insane.
You had run away from it all. From the piercing noises, comparison, disdain, disappointment, everything. You were so young back then, with no knowledge of the outside world or its secrets.
You’d try to settle in different parts of the world, failing miserably each time because that feeling of something missing in your soul— that deep longing and yearning for anything that wasn’t as quick as getting a quick whiff of dopamine.. never quite left following you.
And now, here you are, back where it all began, and nothing has changed. Except, perhaps, you. You’re not the same girl who left this place. You’ve seen too much, been through too much. The world has carved its mark on you, left you scarred and weary, and you’re not sure if there’s anything left of the girl you used to be.
But as you stand there, looking out at the endless pictures which hang on the old plastered walls where the past that still haunts you, you realize something.
You’re not just angry anymore.
You’re tired.
Tired of carrying this weight, this burden of resentment and hurt. Tired of blaming all the misunderstandings that were woven into the delicate fabric of your mind as you grew up, to someone who perhaps wasn't even slightly related to your pain.
Perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t really him you despised, but the circumstances that had pushed you to see him as the source of your pain, which had settled like dust in the chambers of your heart. The misunderstandings that had tangled themselves into the delicate fabric of your mind as you grew up, weaving him into the narrative of your suffering, were unfair to you both.
It felt easier to blame him than to confront the truth—that your pain had roots far deeper than just one boy with a bright smile and kind heart.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let go.
The thought surprises you, shakes you to your core. Where the fuck did that come from?
The thought not only surprises you, but mostly, scares you. You take a cautious step back. It comes with a dozen questions which you fear that you don’t know the answers to, or are way too confused to even think about them.
You’ve held onto this anger for so long, let it define you, shape you. Who will you be without it? Can you really let go of something that has been a part of you for so long?
Did it really take you this long to realise this, all that, too in the place where you desperately ran away from?
You don’t have the answers, not yet. But standing here, in this place where it all began, you think that maybe you’re ready to start looking for them.
And that scares you more than anything else.
You find yourself staring at a sketchbook, after dinner, which was all just . . . once again, all silence. You remember how you realised that the food tasted bland, despite having a home cooked meal after nearly a decade. You tried adding salt till it was way too salty, and you had to gulp down each morsel because it became too bitter for your taste. The suffocating silence was broken when the bubbling hot stew burnt your tongue, as you yelped in pain. The only relief you got was gulping down a whole bottle of iced water from the fridge.
Your tongue feels numb now. Great.
Your eyes roam over the sketchbook again, its once pristine pages now yellowed with age. It was a relic from your childhood, buried deep in the attic with dust for years until your return home unearthed it. As you trace the lines of the drawing on the first page, you remember the day you made it—a simple scene of a house on a hill, surrounded by trees and bathed in the warm glow of a sunset, and those huge “V” shaped birds marked randomly near the sun.
You remember that you were so proud of that drawing, each line and color carefully chosen by your younger self, an attempt to capture a world that felt safe and beautiful.
An imaginary place where you’d even thought of making stick figures to show you and your parents, a world where they lived happily, but the vague pencil traces underneath the pastel scribbling show that you’d decided it was better without it.
But the memory of showing it to your parents is what lingers most. You remember how your excitement had bubbled over as you presented the drawing to your parents, your young heart brimming with pride. You’d spent hours on that piece, the house on the hill, the yellow-ish hues of the sunset, the trees swaying gently in the imaginary breeze. You thought it was the best thing you’d ever created.
But when you placed the sketchbook in front of them, eager for their approval, their reactions were far from what you had hoped.
Your mother’s eyes had flickered over the page, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t say anything at first, just handed the sketchbook over to your father, who barely glanced at it before returning to his newspaper. It was your mother who finally broke the silence, her voice flat and dismissive. “It’s… fine,” she’d said, and that single word was like a bucket of cold water on your excitement, your hard work.
You remember vividly, how your heart sank, how the colours of your drawing seemed to dull right before your eyes. How hours of scribbling felt like it’d all been to waste. The pride you’d felt moments before quickly evaporated, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You were too young to understand why her words stung so much, but old enough to know they did.
But then your mother’s tone shifted, a hint of something sharper creeping into her voice. Her eyes, dark and clear, were on you. “You know,” she’d continued, “Jungkook showed us a drawing he did just last week. It was a landscape too, but he added so much detail. The way he captured the mountains and the way the light reflected on the water… It was really impressive. His technique is really improving.”
Your father chimed in, not even looking up. “Yes, he’s always had a good eye for these things, hah. Natural talent, I suppose.”
You’d just stood there in the corner, your limbs feeling way too weak and shaky to hold you up.
You’d tried to keep your expression neutral, tried to swallow the hollow pain in your chest, but it was no use. The resentment boiled inside you, twisting something in your chest until all you could feel was the unfairness of it all. You had wanted to create something beautiful, to show them what you were capable of, that you could do better, but instead, your drawing had become just another reminder of how you didn’t measure up.
The sting of their words burned hot behind your eyes, and before you knew it, tears were blurring your vision. You didn’t want to cry in front of them, didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing how deeply they had hurt you. So you bolted from the yard, the sound of their conversation fading behind you as you ran, feeling even hurt that none of your parents bothered to ask about where you were going.
But your vision was too clouded by tears, and as you reached the stairs, you’d feel your foot catch on the edge of a step. You stumbled forward, eyes widening, your arms flailing as you tried to catch yourself, but it was too late. You’d fallen, hard, the impact of your knee against the hardwood sending a sharp jolt of pain through your leg.
You remember the way your mother had smiled when she talked about Jungkook’s drawing, a soft, admiring smile that she rarely directed at you. It wasn’t just the critique of your work that hurt—it was the realization that, in their eyes, Jungkook would always outshine you. No matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in, he was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, while you were just… there.
The tears you’d been holding back spilled over, partly from the pain, but mostly from the overwhelming sense of rejection and inadequacy. You sat there on the stairs, your knee scraped and bleeding, the ache in your chest even worse than the one on your knee. The drawing that had once filled you with pride now felt like a cruel joke, a reminder of how you would always fall short, no matter how hard you tried.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, angry at yourself for crying, angry at them for making you feel this way, and angry at Jungkook for being the perfect son they never had. The resentment grew deeper, and with it, so did the belief that you were never going to be good enough for them, no matter what you did.
— — —
The moon is full overhead when you finally change into some comfortable PJs and finally feel sleep knock on the back of your eyelids and exhaustion making its way to move gradually along your body. Today wasn’t exactly eventful, but rather a concoction of memories which tickled and stung you like a thousand bees over and over.
You’ve decided to keep the windows open, . . .for tonight, atleast, because you do not dare sleep without feeling suffocated here. It sounds silly, but having nice ventilation feels. . . fresh, or more so.
You were around fourteen, you think, as you remember sitting on the edge of the playground, kicking at the dirt with the toes of your worn sneakers. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the field, and you could hear the other kids shouting and playing, their voices mingling with the distant hum of traffic.
You weren’t interested in joining them. Your eyes were fixed on a figure in the distance, one you knew all too well.
Jungkook.
He was standing by the swings, laughing with a group of boys who seemed to hang on his every word. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he pushed it back, and his smile—God, that smile—was so bright, so beautiful, it almost hurt to look at. You hated that smile. You hated how perfect he seemed, how effortless everything was for him. And you hated how, no matter what you did, you could never seem to escape his shadow. No wonder the girls were so hung up on him, even the class president— it was ridiculous.
That day had started like any other, with your parents reminding you how you should be more like Jungkook. They praised his grades, his athletic abilities, and his charm. Either a direct implication of “Why can’t you be more like him?” or something like “You know, Jungkook— blah blah blah, all that bullshit about how he was better than you in every aspect. Even if it was the topic of increasing acne on your face, not realising—or maybe not caring—how their words cut you down. You knew they meant well, or maybe not, but each comparison felt like a knife to your heart, a reminder that you would never be good enough.
That you’ll never be him.
You were lost in your thoughts when you felt a presence beside you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“Hey,” Jungkook said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “Why are you sitting here alone?” His voice was always so soft. So gentle.
You hated his voice. Why did he sound so. . . sweet ? so smooth, almost with a slight undertone of a rasp. Why did it make you want to surrender and break down into the frustration which was pent up inside you since ages?
You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak. Your throat felt tight, your chest heavy. You wanted to tell him to go away, to leave you alone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because as much as you resented him, wanted him away from you, you somehow wanted him near you, a feeling which was hugely perplexing to you. It was a twisted, painful contradiction that you didn’t fully understand, nor you’d ever wanted to.
Jungkook sat down beside you, right on the dusty ground, his knee brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt, a feeling of fleeting emotions through you, but you didn’t move away. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the ground, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears that were threatening to spill over.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.
Of course he’s gonna be concerned.
And that was the thing about Jungkook—he was always so kind, so considerate, even when you didn’t want him to be. It only made you feel worse. It only made you feel like utter shit, like you were not meant for anything, not even basic human compassion.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your emotions in check. “I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.
Jungkook didn’t seem convinced. He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. He smelled like baby powder mixed with sweat. Irritating. “You know you can talk to me, right? If something’s bothering you.”
You almost laughed at the irony. How could you talk to him when he was the source of so much of your pain? When everyday you had to just, suffer because of him? How could you tell him that every time you looked at him, you felt like you were drowning in your own inadequacy? That every time he succeeded, it felt like another reminder of your failures? While he was always praised, always encouraged, while you were left to wonder why your efforts never seemed to measure up?
But instead of saying any of that, you just nodded, giving him the answer he wanted. Because you couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing you as weak, as vulnerable. You couldn’t let him know how deeply he had affected you.
There was a long silence between you, the kind that felt like it was stretching out forever. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, feel the tension in your chest building with every passing second. And then, just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Jungkook spoke again.
“You know, you’re really talented,” he said, his voice slightly higher than usual, a habit you hate to have noticed when he gets excited about something. “I just saw your abstract sketches the other day. Holy shit dude, they’re amazing!”
You didn’t know if your heart hammering in your chest sounded more or the silence after his praise did. He, however, didn’t stop there.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
His words were meant to be comforting, but they only served to twist the knife deeper. Because at that moment, you realised that he didn’t understand. He couldn’t. To him, everything came so easily—success, praise, admiration. But for you, it was a constant struggle, a battle you fought every day just to keep your head above water.
You turned to look at him then, really look at him, not caring if your eyes are brimming with unshed tears or if your nose is runny with snot and tears.
And for the first time, you saw the boy behind the perfect image. There was a softness in his eyes, a sincerity that made your heart ache. And for a fleeting moment, you wanted to believe him, to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were more than the sum of your insecurities.
But then reality came crashing back, and the bitterness you had tried so hard to suppress bubbled to the surface.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice flat, on the verge of cracking, devoid of the warmth you knew he was expecting. “But I don’t need your pity.”
Jungkook blinked, his doe eyes widening, taken aback by your sudden harshness. “It’s not—”
“Just leave me alone,” you’d hissed, standing up abruptly. You didn’t give him a chance to respond before you turned and walked away, your heart pounding in your chest, your blood rushing onto your face. You could feel his eyes on your back, but you didn’t dare look back. Because if you did, you knew you would see the hurt in his expression, and you couldn’t handle that. Not when you were already so close to breaking.
And so you ran. Ran so fast, so hard, that you felt your chest constrict and gulp for air— the static breeze feeling like wind on your face as you ran, ran, ran. Ran till your limbs gave away and your head hurt, till you feel your insides eat you up with a strange mix of emotions—anger, regret, sadness.
But most of all, you felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness, even if you felt like you did the right thing. Because in pushing Jungkook away, you had also pushed away the one person who might have understood, who might have been able to help you. . . only if you hadn’t pushed him away.
But it was too late now. The damage was done, and you were left to pick up the pieces alone.
But as you stare at the sketchbook now, under the glowing moonlight, running your fingers over the faded lines of the drawing, the sketches you’d made again — you see it with different eyes—eyes that can appreciate the innocence in those lines, the earnestness of a child who only wanted to create something beautiful. The proportions might not be perfect, almost nothing in those sketches were — but there’s a charm in their simplicity, a warmth in the colors that you hadn’t noticed before. They were all good drawings, you think, not because of their technical skill, but because they were a reflection of who you were back then—hopeful, imaginative, and full of dreams.
And maybe, just maybe, you had been a little too hard on yourself all those years ago.
You hadn’t even planned to be here.
The moment your father casually mentioned that the Jeons still lived next door, you felt that familiar, uncomfortable pressure building in your chest. You didn’t absolutely know why that information passed on, especially when after a heavy restless night of feeling like crap, your muscles aching from exhaustion , your brain unable to process every thought which you’d thought, you were finally up to join your parents for an early evening tea.
His voice was cheerful, like he had no idea the gravity of what he was suggesting, but you felt it immediately. Every time the conversation veered toward your neighbors, it dredged up feelings you weren’t ready to confront. The Jeons—his parents—meant one thing, and ultimately, one thing only: Jungkook.
The mention of their name was enough to send your mind into overdrive, painting images of polite conversation and awkward laughter, images that twisted into something far more unbearable—seeing him. You could already hear the follow-up conversation in your mother’s saccharine sweet voice, “Why don’t you come over and say hello? Catch up with the Jeons?” And worst of all, they’d ask about you. You felt despondent to even think of the conversation, if it ever took place.
You weren’t used to the warmth which Mr. and Mrs. Jeon had shown you throughout the years, which only made you doubt if they ever knew the thick wall of ash between their son and you. They were so copacetically well humored, it almost hurt to be in a conversation with them.
Almost as if you never were used to this form of decency, that it shocked you to your core.
Jungkook’s parents would definitely ask, and you'd be expected to stand there and smile like you hadn't left everything behind. You know they definitely wouldn’t mean anything hurtful, but you do not believe your mind.
Not yet, atleast.
Before your parents could suggest anything more, before they could casually lead you down that path of small talk and forced interactions, you’d mumbled a vague excuse. Something about needing to stretch your legs, or needing some air.
You really did, though.
You’d slipped out the front door like you were running away, and you shook away the bitterness forming in your throat. You weren’t sure where you were going, only that it had to be away from that conversation, away from the chance of seeing him.
As your feet carried you through the familiar streets, your mind raced faster than your heart. The narrow, winding streets were the same, the faded signs on shop windows were the same, but the memories that clung to the air—they were suffocating.
You’d always thought coming back would be simple. Walk down memory lane, see familiar faces, and pretend you were someone new. But the weight of those memories hung over you, each one sharper than the last. With every corner you turned, you felt the tug of your past, a pull you couldn’t quite shake away, no matter how hard you’d tried to shrug it off.
— — —
You found yourself slipping into a small café you hadn’t noticed before, just off the main road, desperate for a reprieve.
What’s the name— 134340? Quite strange, you think, but shrug it off once again. People are creative with their business requirements, even if that means that you probably make out nothing from eyeing the café from outside. except the fact that. . . it’s possibly space themed?
Now that is strange for a coffee shop.
You think that it’s quite new. Or, who even knows. It stands out from the dull shops lit nearby, and there’s quite a buzz which attracts you here, although you’d prefer a quiet café over a bustling one any day.
Well, fuck it.
The smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries greeted you as you stepped inside, the hum of quiet conversation and the soft clink of mugs providing a much-needed escape. It’s surprisingly cozy, something you’d never guessed from the odd name and the theme previously. The café is small, actually smaller than most you’ve been to. Though, it’s nice, there are fewer people here, and you quite find yourself at peace already. You chose a table near the back, away from the windows, trying to create some distance from the life outside.
You hadn’t planned to stay long, but the peaceful atmosphere lulled you into a false sense of security. You let out a long breath, allowing the tension to ease from your shoulders as you sipped your coffee. Ha, thisfelt nice. For a few blissful moments, you felt like you could breathe again. Almost like. . . maybe you could handle this return to your hometown after all.
And then, the door chimes.
You barely looked up at first—just another customer, maybe a loner like you, someone else in this quiet café. But then the barista’s voice cut through the room, clear and distinct.
“Macchiato for Jungkook!”
Huh?
Your hand froze halfway to your cup. The familiar sound of his name hit you like a punch to the gut, making your breath hitch.
No fucking way.
Your gaze shot up, almost instinctively, and that’s when you saw him. There, standing by the counter, picking up his drink like it was the most casual thing in the world. Him.
Your heart seemed to lurch into your throat. It couldn’t be him—it couldn’t. And yet, there he was, right in front of you, a few inches away.
The room seemed to shrink around you, your pulse quickening as your eyes locked onto him. You felt yourself gasping for air, your peace long broken. Your body felt suddenly too warm, your chest tightening painfully as every nerve in your body screamed for you to look away.
But you just couldn’t.
He had changed.
The boy you left behind had grown into someone you barely recognized. His back was visible to you— his frame was broader, more solid than you remembered, and his shoulders— God, what the fuck? they seemed to stretch forever beneath the dark jacket he wore. His hair, slightly tousled, deep raven — as you’d remembered— framed his face in that familiar, careless way, but it was sharper now. Defined. There was no mistaking the confidence in the way he carried himself, something he hadn't fully grown into back then.
But what stood out most—what nearly knocked the breath from your lungs—were those— were those. . . tattoos peeking underneath his jacket?
Jungkook's arm, the one that used to be bare, now carried intricate black ink that snaked from his wrist to his elbow, disappearing under the sleeve of his jacket. The lines were bold, winding and curling, and you felt your jaw drop, even if he was standing at a distance. The tattoos seemed to catch the light as he reached for his drink, each motion of his arm drawing your attention like a magnet.
You couldn’t stop staring. The boy you remembered—the one who had always been so kind, so open—had become someone else entirely.
One who stood in stark contrast to the memories you had clung to.
And he was alone.
Jungkook had always been surrounded by people. He was known to be the crowd attractor, always having his admirers petting him by his neck. He was never the type to go anywhere without friends trailing behind him, their laughter filling the spaces around him. But here, now, in this café—he was by himself. There was a stillness about him that you didn’t remember, something quiet and self-assured.
Now, it almost felt like he didn’t need anyone around him to validate his presence. He was comfortable in his own skin, by himself.
That realisation hit you harder than you expected. He had changed in ways you hadn’t anticipated, ways that made your chest tighten with emotions you couldn’t even begin to name.
And then, just as you thought your heart might explode from your chest, Jungkook turned slightly, his eyes sweeping across the café—casually, as if he were taking in his surroundings—and your stomach dropped.
Fuck, fuck. The coffee was so strong, you feel it lurching up your stomach now.
You flinched, ducking your head quickly, heart pounding so loud you thought he might hear it across the room. Did he see you? Could he have recognized you after all these years? Your breath was shallow, uneven, panic rising in your throat as you wrestled with the urge to bolt from your seat.
You weren’t ready for this.
You weren’t ready to face him. Not here, not now. Not when you were still so caught up in your own thoughts, still trying to piece together the fragments of what your brain showed you. You’d come here for a cup of coffee— some peace— and seeing him again, after all this time, felt too much, and too little at once. It was like a bomb, or a bucket of ice cold water thrown directly at you.
It was overwhelming.
Your fingers trembled as you reached for your bag, your movements jerky and uncoordinated. Your heart was racing, and every instinct in your body was telling you to run. But you hesitated, torn between the undeniable urge to leave and the part of you that wanted to look at him just once more. Just to see if he had really changed as much as you thought. Just to see if he, unlike this town, your home, had changed.
But you knew better. You couldn’t stay. Not with your emotions so close to the surface, threatening to spill over. If he saw you, if he recognized you—if he spoke to you— you didn’t know if you could handle that.
Because you know you can’t.
The café, once so peaceful, now felt stifling, the walls closing in on you as your breath quickened. You couldn’t breathe. You needed to get out of here, needed to escape before everything came crashing down.
With one final glance at his figure, standing there by the counter, you pushed your chair back, the screeching sound drawing more attention than you would have liked. But you didn’t care. You grabbed your things and bolted for the door, your pulse pounding in your ears, your steps quick and uneven.
You’d nearly made it. The door was just a few steps away, and all you had to do was keep your head down and walk.
Your heart was still hammering in your chest, the anxiety twisting your insides as you tried to steady your breathing. Jungkook hadn’t seen you—or at least you hoped he hadn’t. You prayed to heavens and hells that he hadn’t. But just as you reached for the door, you saw him lean against the counter, much closer now. Far closer than you had anticipated.
Fuck. Fuck!
The café’s single door was right beside where he stood, and there was no way out without passing directly by him.
Oh no.
You shouldn’t have chosen this café. Was there no other cafés for you to try? Did HE necessarily have to be in the same café as you?
Your stomach churned, your pulse thudding in your ears, drowning out everything else. He was right there. Right there. And you could feel the heat radiating off him even from where you stood. Panic crawled up your spine, making your movements sluggish and jerky. You just needed to keep your head down and walk—walk past him without glancing his way, without catching his eye. But he was so close, and as you stepped forward, trying to make yourself as small as possible, you caught it—his scent.
That familiar scent, one that had changed just as much as he had. He no longer smelled like baby powder. It was manly now, deeper, some sort of an expensive cologne, which was strong on its own— yet soft, almost comforting in a way that made your chest constrict painfully. The scent wrapped around you, making your knees feel weak, and for a second, you nearly lost your footing. You fought the instinct to look at him—to take one glance and confirm that yes, this is the Jungkook you left behind, the one who had grown into a man. But you couldn’t. If you looked at him, you’d be done.
You were beyond cooked.
Your legs carried you forward, faster than they should have, your mind racing with every step. You felt your arm brush something—him, the edge of his jacket maybe, or his hand on the counter—and your pulse spiked violently.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
You shoved the door open, your breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts as you stumbled outside, the cool air hitting your face like a hard slap back to reality.
You were outside. You’d made it. But the world around you was spinning, the street and the sky blurring together as your heart continued to pound in your chest. You leaned against the wall just outside the café, your hand pressed to your chest, trying to catch your breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside you.
Your palms felt uncomfortably clammy and you felt a sweat head run down your temple. Your thoughts were a mess—disjointed. Everything was hitting you at once; you had run away again. You had seen him, been close enough to touch him, and you had run. Just like before.
You squeezed your eyes shut, the ache in your chest spreading as you tried to pull yourself together. It was stupid. So stupid. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid ! You were an adult now, one with full responsibilities for your actions, and yet here you were, fleeing like a scared child.
You took a deep breath, forcing the air into your lungs. Maybe you could handle this. Yeah, you needed to clear your head. It’s just the coffee messing with you. Maybe you could—
“Excuse me?”
Your entire body froze at the voice directed at you.
That voice.
Deep. Smooth. Rich. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine, catching you off guard, wrapping itself around you like a tether, pulling you back toward the very thing you were trying to escape.
It wasn’t the voice you remembered—but it also very much was— heavier, weighted with a kind of maturity that made your breath catch. The boy you once knew had never sounded like this. This voice was deeper, more assured, like it had weathered years of life since you last heard it. The softness which his voice held in your memory still was back somewhere, but you couldn’t find it. And that hit you hard. He wasn’t that same boy anymore. The boy who used to tease you, who laughed with that bright, carefree chuckle—he was gone.
And now, that very voice was speaking to you.
You slowly turned to face him, your heart thudding violently in your chest as your eyes locked onto his face.
Yeah, this was your end.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Jungkook.
He was right there, just a few feet away. And this close, you could see everything.
The sharpness of his jawline hit you first, carved out and more defined than you ever remembered. It was strong, angular, like someone had taken the softness he once had and sculpted it into something more. . . commanding. His lips, parted slightly as he waited for you to respond, were full and soft, but even they held a sense of control, like every movement was deliberate. Fuck, was that a piercing at the corner ? His nose—perfectly straight, leading up to those eyes.
Those eyes.
Dark, deep, and searching. They hadn’t changed much in shape, but the way they looked at you was different now—more intense, more aware. His gaze wasn’t filled with youthful curiosity or mischief anymore. It was deeper. Grounded. Like he saw more, understood more.
He was a man now.
Your stomach twisted violently, and you had to force yourself to breathe.
Your gaze traveled up, noting the way his thick brows framed his face, darker and more defined than you remembered. They furrowed slightly as he watched you, as if trying to figure out why you were staring, why you hadn’t taken the phone from his hand yet. The small furrow in his brows only made his expression more serious, more focused. He was looking at you—not just glancing, but looking.
His dark, inky black hair brushed just above his brows, a few strands falling forward in that effortless, tousled way. It was longer now, framing his face, giving him an edge that made your chest tighten.
But it wasn’t just his face. Your eyes flickered down for just a second, barely able to handle it. His neck—strong and sinewy, leading to broad shoulders that seemed even broader now in the fitted jacket he wore. He’d filled out—a lot. His arms were no longer just lean muscle from teenage years of sports. Now, they were thicker, more muscular, straining against the fabric of his sleeve. Oh my God.
Your mind raced, every detail crashing into you at once, overwhelming your senses. Your chest felt tight, and you felt like your hands were shaking by your sides.
The more you looked, the more you realized how much had changed. How much you had missed. How much you had run away from?
It felt like the world was tilting, spinning, and you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop the flood of memories, the weight of time lost, the realization that Jungkook had grown into someone you barely recognized—yet you knew it was still him.
He was still him.
You were losing yourself in it, in all of it, your thoughts spiraling out of control, unable to process the fact that he was standing here, holding something that belonged to you, waiting for you to take it from him.
Your eyes flickered back to his face, your heart clenching painfully. He was watching you, studying you in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. And yet, as much as he was looking at you, he didn’t know you. Didn’t recognize you. Not yet, anyway.
That hit you harder than you could’ve expected. How could he not know who you were? How could he not see it in your face, in the way you were trembling, in the panic written all over you?
But then again, why would he?
You were no longer the same girl he once knew.
And as his eyes narrowed in mild confusion, his brow furrowing just a little deeper, it became clear—he didn’t see you as the person who had disappeared from his life. Not yet.
“Hey, are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice sending a tremor down your spine. You couldn’t miss the concern in his tone, the slight edge of worry that made your throat tighten even more.
Fuck. Of course he’d be concerned.
You blinked, the world rushing back into focus, feeling like your pupils zoomed like crazy— and suddenly, you realized you had been standing there for far too long, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. Standing there like a damn weirdo.
Your phone. He is holding your phone.
For a split second, your eyes met his, and time seemed to freeze.
His gaze locked onto yours, and for the briefest of moments, something flickered there—something like recognition. You feel your eyes widening, bells ringing at the back of your head. His eyes softened, just slightly, as if he was searching your face for something familiar, something from the past. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that same polite curiosity.
For a moment, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Your eyes flickered between his face and the phone in his hand, your chest tightening with each passing second. What should you do? He was right there, right in front of you. He was close enough for yoh to reach out and take back what was yours.
But you couldn’t.
Your hand now actually trembled at your side, your body frozen in place. The air felt too thick for you to gulp in, and your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
“I—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, trying to force the words out, trying to make your body move. But you couldn’t.
You just couldn’t.
He tilted his head slightly, concern flickering across his face as he waited for you to take the phone. Why is he so concerned!? But you just stood there, rooted to the spot, like your feet had been glued to the ground. You felt the panic rising inside you again, the walls closing in as your chest tightened painfully, slowly.
“I—” you tried again, but your throat was too tight, and the word came out as nothing more than a strangled sound, like a muffled voice.
He took a step closer, and that was it. That was it.
Your body went into overdrive. Without thinking, without even trying to reason with yourself, you turned on your heel and bolted down the street, not caring if people stopped to look at you, thinking if you possibly were either a lunatic or someone who just won a lottery.
You didn’t care. You ran, ran, feeling your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you ran. Your legs felt shaky beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears as you darted around the corner, as far away from him as possible.
You couldn’t do this.
Your heart was hammering so violently you thought it might burst right out of your chest, and all you could think about was getting away. Far, far away.
You ran till you feel your chest burn, you ran till you felt like your limbs would give up. You ran till you feel like nothing again, you ran till your mind was empty.
When you finally slowed, your breath came in harsh, ragged bursts, and your vision blurred with tears you hadn’t realized were there. You collapsed onto a bench, your whole body trembling violently as the weight of everything crashed down on you.
You had run away.
Again.
And this time, you didn’t even have an excuse.
a/n : phew.. 😵💫 if you’ve made this far, thank you for reading 💜 what do we think? i’d be very glad if you let me know your thoughts 🫶🏾 if you want, there’s an anonymous feedback box where you can drop your thoughts anonymously 💌
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