#to preserve its excellence

[spittingoutthebloodandscreaming]

more people should put meta and fan essays on ao3 tbh

[ace-and-ranty]

Murderbot really be like "Can all of you stop caring about me for FIVE SECONDS."

[dabblingreturns]

It's always scary to show someone you love something you love.....so thankyou @radioactivepigeons for enjoying my road trip audiobook choice of "kaiju preservation society" by John Scalzi and letting me help you fan cast it during lulls in traffic

[acecentro]

[plaguedocboi]

ITS GREAT LAKES AWARENESS DAY!!!!!

On this excellent day, be aware that this is the largest group of freshwater lakes in the world, covering over 95,000 square miles and reaching depths of over a thousand feet. They are beautiful freshwater seas.

Also when you die in these lakes, the very cold, oxygen-poor conditions at the bottom preserves you perfectly for all eternity. You will not rot and nothing will eat you. You will exist for as long as the Great Lakes do. Many shipwrecks still have the crew on board. Be Aware.

[babieken]

What kind of bullshit is this...

[kleopatra45]

Asteroid Vesta (4)

Asteroid Vesta (4) in astrology represents devotion, focus, and dedication. Its placement in a birth chart indicates where one channels intense concentration and commitment. Vesta governs purity of purpose, self-discipline, and the pursuit of spiritual or personal goals. Understanding Vesta's position offers insights into areas where one may excel through diligent effort, meticulous attention to detail, and unwavering dedication.

Vesta in the Houses

Vesta in the 1st House This placement suggests that devotion, focus, and dedication are integral to your identity and self-expression. You may project an aura of commitment and discipline, and others may see you as someone who is dedicated to personal goals or causes. Vesta in the 2nd House Values, possessions, and material security are important themes in your sense of devotion. You may dedicate yourself to achieving financial stability or to preserving what you value most. Your investments and resources may reflect your focused commitment. Vesta in the 3rd House Communication, learning, and intellectual pursuits are emphasized in your dedication. You may dedicate yourself to acquiring knowledge, teaching others, or advocating for causes through effective communication. Siblings and neighbors may play a role in your dedicated efforts. Vesta in the 4th House Family, home, and emotional security are central to your sense of devotion. You may dedicate yourself to nurturing your family, maintaining a harmonious home environment, or preserving traditions. Real estate and ancestral roots may hold deep significance for you. Vesta in the 5th House Creativity, self-expression, and children (if applicable) are emphasized in your dedicated pursuits. You may dedicate yourself to artistic endeavors, hobbies, or activities that bring joy and fulfillment. Romantic relationships may also be a focus of your dedication. Vesta in the 6th House Service, routines, and health are integral to your sense of devotion. You may dedicate yourself to a career that involves helping others, maintaining order, or promoting well-being. Your work environment benefits from your focused dedication. Vesta in the 7th House Partnerships, relationships, and collaborations are key areas of dedication for you. You may dedicate yourself to fostering mutual support, fairness, and harmony in your relationships. Legal partnerships or contracts may reflect your dedication to balanced interactions. Vesta in the 8th House Intimacy, shared resources, and transformation play significant roles in your sense of devotion. You may dedicate yourself to deepening emotional bonds, managing shared finances, or facilitating personal and collective transformations. Crisis management may be an area where you excel. Vesta in the 9th House Philosophy, beliefs, and higher learning influence your sense of devotion. You may dedicate yourself to exploring spiritual or intellectual pursuits, advocating for social justice, or traveling to broaden your perspectives. Cross-cultural exchanges may deepen your sense of dedication. Vesta in the 10th House Career, public image, and achievements are important in how you express your sense of dedication. You may dedicate yourself to achieving professional success, assuming leadership roles, or making a lasting impact in your field. Your reputation reflects your focused commitment. Vesta in the 11th House Friendships, groups, and social causes are emphasized in your dedicated efforts. You may dedicate yourself to supporting community initiatives, advocating for humanitarian causes, or promoting collective goals. Networking enhances your sense of dedication. Vesta in the 12th House Spirituality, hidden strengths, and unconscious patterns influence your sense of dedication. You may dedicate yourself to mystical pursuits, charitable endeavors, or healing practices that operate behind the scenes. Your inner life and spiritual growth are deeply tied to your sense of dedication.

Vesta in the Signs

Aries: Vesta in Aries dedicates itself with courage, initiative, and independence. You are driven to pursue personal goals and causes that require bold action and leadership. Taurus: Vesta in Taurus dedicates itself with patience, persistence, and practicality. You commit yourself to preserving stability, building material security, and nurturing enduring values. Gemini: Vesta in Gemini dedicates itself with versatility, curiosity, and adaptability. You focus on acquiring knowledge, sharing information, and exploring multiple interests through your dedication. Cancer: Vesta in Cancer dedicates itself with empathy, intuition, and nurturing care. You devote yourself to supporting loved ones, creating a secure home environment, and preserving emotional bonds. Leo: Vesta in Leo dedicates itself with creativity, passion, and self-expression. You commit yourself to artistic pursuits, leadership roles, and projects that showcase your talents and charisma. Virgo: Vesta in Virgo dedicates itself with precision, analysis, and practical service. You focus on improving efficiency, organizing details, and providing reliable support through your dedication. Libra: Vesta in Libra dedicates itself with diplomacy, harmony, and fairness. You devote yourself to fostering balanced relationships, promoting justice, and advocating for equality. Scorpio: Vesta in Scorpio dedicates itself with depth, intensity, and transformation. You commit yourself to uncovering truths, managing crises, and empowering others through your dedication. Sagittarius: Vesta in Sagittarius dedicates itself with optimism, exploration, and philosophical inquiry. You focus on expanding horizons, promoting freedom, and advocating for global causes through your dedication. Capricorn: Vesta in Capricorn dedicates itself with ambition, discipline, and long-term goals. You commit yourself to achieving success, assuming responsibilities, and building enduring structures. Aquarius: Vesta in Aquarius dedicates itself with innovation, humanitarianism, and progressive ideals. You focus on advancing social change, supporting diversity, and promoting collective empowerment through your dedication. Pisces: Vesta in Pisces dedicates itself with compassion, imagination, and spiritual insight. You commit yourself to artistic creativity, healing practices, and charitable causes that uplift humanity.

Vesta in Aspects

Conjunctions: A conjunction of Vesta with another planet intensifies the influence of that planet on your sense of dedication and focus. For example, Vesta conjunct Mercury emphasizes dedication to communication and learning, while Vesta conjunct Mars highlights dedication to action and assertiveness. Sextiles and Trines: These harmonious aspects indicate ease and support in integrating the energies of Vesta and the other planet involved. For example, Vesta sextile Venus suggests dedication to harmony and creativity in relationships or artistic pursuits, while Vesta trine Jupiter indicates dedication to growth and expansion through optimism and opportunity. Squares and Oppositions: These challenging aspects can indicate tension or conflict that needs to be addressed in your sense of dedication. For example, Vesta square Saturn might indicate challenges in committing to long-term goals or facing restrictions, while Vesta opposition Uranus could highlight a need to balance unconventional thinking with stable dedication.

©️kleopatra45

[vexwerewolf]

why is it that we only have like two licenses from any mech producer that’s a good guy? For a game where like there are clear good and bad guys (even if who you play isn’t necessarily linked to that) it seems strange to me that the only loot and XP you get is… more benefits from the bad guys

I can tell you the answer, but to do so, we're gonna have to talk about a completely different TTRPG.

If you've read @makapatag's truly excellent Filipino martial arts TTRPG Gubat Banwa (and if you haven't, here it is), you may notice that every single character class description (with one notable exception) ends with one of these babies:

I am not Makapatag, and I cannot write with quite as much grace and eloquence as he can, but I will try:

If you choose to become a Lancer, ask yourself why you mock the name of peace with these weapons of war. You call yourself a saviour, but your steed was forged from the murder of a world. You stride across the sky in a colossus built in your own image, so why are you too cowardly to give it your face? Why do you believe these machines of death can preserve life?

It is important to note that the admonitions in Gubat Banwa are not just there to make you feel bad; they are there as legitimate questions. The Sword Isles have seen so much blood, death and tragedy. Wars are not glorious and killing is not a game. So, knowing all of that, why have you taken up this discipline - no matter how noble and virtuous it might claim to be - to shed more blood, to bring more death, to write more tragedy? What could possibly drive you to this? What need is so great that you must kill?

The thing with Gubat Banwa is that there are legitimate answers to these questions! There are bad people doing bad things, and some of them will not be stopped with words or kindness. Sometimes, as sorrowful as it is, killing is the correct choice to prevent greater suffering and deeper tragedy - but adding less misery and death to the world is still adding some amount of it. Even the most necessary wars will drench the ground in the blood of the innocent.

A sword is a tool meant to kill humans; while it can be used for other things, it is not well-suited to anything other than this. A mech is, in its most basic essence, just a very complicated sword: it's usually used on things larger than a person, but it's still a tool built to kill.

So why have you taken up this path? Humanity was saved from the brink of extinction and has created wondrous technologies like printers, cold fusion and mind-machine interface, and yet you use them to play soldier in a giant metal man. Why do you choose to take up this machine of death, built by the greedy and pitiless? Why do you think these machines can ever make things right?

Because sometimes, despite everything, they can.

Warhammer 40K shows an awful world full of monsters and monstrosity, and in the darkest moments of its history, Lancer's world looked just as bleak, but Lancer's world differs in one crucial way. Warhammer's world has long given up trying to be better, but Lancer's world never did. Lancer's world kept insisting a better world is possible, and it used what tools it had to make it so.

Sometimes the correct choice, no matter how bitter it may seem, is to kill someone. When you need to do this, a sword is a perfectly good choice for the job.

If you find yourself discomforted by the fact that all the people you can buy mechs from are corrupt and immoral - good! You have correctly engaged with the text. You have understood that the sort of people who would make giant walking death machines and sell them for profit are not good people. But you still have a job to do, and you need the correct tools, and those people have them.

Lancer is not a game about a perfect world - it is a game about a deeply flawed and imperfect one that does not let its imperfection stop it from trying. You have to try to make a better world, even with imperfect tools made by unpleasant people.

[cielettosa]

LEVI ACKERMAN: WHY HE IS HUMANITY'S STRONGEST SOLDIER

This post contains:

An in depth analysis on Levi's motivations and what underscores them

His view on his strength

Why Levi is so reserved

Why Levi was obsessed with killing zeke

Levi presents a nuanced exploration of the gap between initial impressions and underlying motivations.

While his initial demeanor appears stoic and potentially aloof, bordering on arrogance, a closer look can reveal a profound sense of responsibility and dedication driving his actions.

Levi's act of comforting a dying comrade while vowing to eradicate the Titan threat signifies a deeply ingrained sense of purpose.

This act transcends mere pragmatism, demonstrating an emotional connection to the fallen and a commitment to the collective cause of the Survey Corps.

His vow is a promise to honor the sacrifices made by countless individuals, carrying their collective resolve forward in the fight for a Titan-free world.

He is burdened by the weight of loss yet driven by an unwavering commitment to the ideals and the fallen comrades of the Survey Corps. He embodies the collective hope of humanity, particularly those who dedicate their lives to the eradication of the Titan threat, ensuring that the sacrifices made will not be in vain.

His physical prowess is a defining aspect of his character and role within the narrative.

His strength serves as a pillar of support for those around him. His ability to consistently survive and excel in battle, as evidenced by his reassurance to the dying comrade, instills a sense of hope and security in his comrades. He becomes a symbol of unwavering resilience amidst the constant threat of annihilation.

However, Levi's perception of his strength extends beyond its immediate utility. He views it as a burden, a responsibility inextricably linked to his title as "Humanity's Strongest Soldier."

He recognizes that his superior abilities often come at the cost of countless lives lost around him, leaving him as the sole survivor in dire situations. This realization fosters a profound sense of duty within him.

Levi's strength compels him to carry the memory and legacy of the fallen. He acknowledges that his survival necessitates fulfilling their unfulfilled aspirations and carrying forward the collective resolve of the Survey Corps.

This is exemplified in his willingness to take responsibility for Eren, even to the point of eliminating him if necessary, and in Erwin's unwavering trust in Levi to handle crucial tasks, such as subduing Beast Titan.

While Levi's immense strength grants him immense power, it is not a source of pride or personal gain.

As Kenny said, Levi is a slave to being a "hero".

He feels an immense responsibility to utilize his power for the greater good, becoming a protector and champion for humanity in their desperate struggle against the Titan threat. This unwavering commitment manifests in various ways, from advocating for the desperate measures of feeding civilians to his relentless dedication in the fight against Titans.

Levi's reserved demeanor is a consequence of a life marked by constant anticipation of tragedy and the loss of countless comrades.

His atypical upbringing, from the harsh realities of the underground to the brutal world of the Survey Corps, has instilled a deep-seated expectation of further losses.

This environment makes emotional expression difficult, leading him to adopt a detached exterior as a coping mechanism.

However, Levi's emotional self-preservation doesn't diminish the profound care he harbors for human life. He fights relentlessly for the sake of strangers, suffers immense anguish with each squad he loses, and his empathy for suffering stems from his own deprived childhood, where basic necessities like sunlight and food were scarce.

Throughout the manga, Levi endures a relentless cycle of loss, constantly grappling with the responsibility of being the "last man standing."

He carries the weight of their sacrifices, driven by the unwavering determination to fulfill their shared dream and ensure their deaths were not in vain. This ever-growing burden continues to shape his reserved nature and fuels his unwavering dedication to the fight for humanity's survival.

Levi's unwavering dedication extends beyond his own burdens. He readily takes on the emotional weight of others, particularly evident in his interaction with Erwin.

When Erwin confesses his guilt and internal turmoil regarding the lives sacrificed in the charge, Levi deliberately chooses to shoulder that burden himself.

This act transcends mere support; it is a conscious decision to relieve Erwin of the immense pressure associated with the lives lost.

Levi explicitly states, "I am making the choice," signifying his deliberate assumption of the responsibility.

This choice carries immense consequences. Levi takes on the horror of the charge and the weight of all the lives lost – the recruits who perished and ultimately, Erwin himself.

This decision contributes significantly to the profound weight that burdens him throughout the manga.

It manifests in his overwhelming sense of failure when he ultimately cannot eliminate Beast Titan, and his heartfelt apology to the charging recruits further underscores the gravity of the responsibility he carries.

As the manga progresses, the weight on Levi's shoulders intensifies. Eren, the boy he once vowed to protect and take responsibility for, ultimately betrays humanity, leaving Levi questioning the "awful joke" of the sacrifices made throughout their journey.

The lives he feels deeply responsible for, even going so far as stating to Zeke that he views them as "killed" by their actions, become a constant source of internal conflict and fuel his unwavering determination to continue the fight for humanity's survival.

As Levi enters the final battle, the physical and emotional toll he bears surpasses anything he has faced before.

He loses the last remaining comrade from his friend group (Hange), faces the seemingly impossible task of fighting his former subordinate, and suffers critical injuries, losing an eye and fingers just days prior.

Despite his weakened state, his sense of responsibility intensifies. He refuses to rest even when Armin urges him to, driven by an internal pressure that compels him to fight.

No external force compels him to engage in this final battle; it is solely driven by his overwhelming sense of responsibility.

His determination to protect his remaining comrades manifests in his actions – offering himself as bait for Mikasa, saving Jean, and enduring further injury while saving Connie.

Even while coughing up blood, he maintains a facade of strength, burdened by the weight of being humanity's strongest.

Finally, after temporarily being sidelined due to his injuries sustained while saving Connie, the immense pressure he has been carrying throughout the narrative culminates in a moment of vulnerability.

Levi is forced to confront the "awful joke" of their situation once again. Now physically broken, Levi contemplates his inability to contribute further, succumbing to self recrimination in the face of immense loss, horror, and guilt.

He questions the purpose of their struggle, wondering if it was all in vain.

However, amidst this profound despair, Levi exhibits a remarkable resilience. He reaffirms the idealistic dream that the Survey Corps fought for, recognizing the inherent value of the lives lost and refusing to succumb to regret.

He chooses to look forward, believing in a better future and the potential of the next generation of idealists. Even in the darkest moment, physically unable to walk and coughing up blood, Levi remains the voice of reason, urging Mikasa to pull it together as they are the "only ones left who can kill Eren."

This unwavering commitment to his duty proves the fact that Levi never stopped fighting, even when his own body betrayed him.

Despite being presumed out of the fight, Levi's unwavering spirit compels him to push through his debilitating injuries and excruciating pain.

This final act of defiance proves crucial in both halting the Rumbling and saving countless lives, fulfilling the promises he made to his fallen comrades and granting meaning to their ultimate sacrifice.

In the aftermath, a profound shift occurs within Levi. He acknowledges the immense contributions of his comrades, recognizing that their unwavering dedication fueled his own actions.

The immense pressure and the burden of countless lives he carried finally lifts, allowing him to release the pain he had bottled up for so long.

For the first time, after enduring countless tragedies, we witness Levi shed tears, signifying a release of the emotional weight that had burdened him throughout his arduous journey.

Levi's title as "Humanity's Strongest Soldier" extends far beyond his physical prowess.

It is his unwavering mental fortitude, forged from constant struggle, that truly defines him. He chooses not to succumb to bitterness or resentment, even after facing a lifetime of hardship and loss. Instead, he exhibits an extraordinary resilience, fueled by an unwavering determination to protect humanity.

Many characters within the narrative succumb to the cycle of violence and hatred. They wield their power to inflict pain and dominate others, fueled by the trauma they have endured. Others, like Ymir, become paralyzed by their past, unable to utilize their abilities to help others. Still others, like Zeke, lose hope in the possibility of a better future.

Levi's journey stands as a powerful counterpoint to these destructive tendencies. He demonstrates that even individuals who have suffered immensely, who have every reason to be disillusioned and apathetic, can choose to believe and fight for the betterment of others. He views his exceptional strength not as a privilege but as a profound responsibility, a tool to be wielded for the benefit of humanity and the preservation of individual lives.

Even as the world around him crumbles, Levi continues to exhibit compassion and a desire to contribute positively. He chooses to break the cycle of hate and despair, actively seeking to put more good into a world that inflicted immense pain upon him. This unwavering commitment to hope and the value of human life stands as a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit, even in the face of unimaginable adversity.

Other analyses by me:

Levi and Kenny

How Levi utilizes his intellect in fighting and decision making and his leadership in final battle

Levi Ackerman (an overall analysis? One of my first one so it's not that good ig)

The Yeagers and the Ackermans I: Their motivations and dynamic

The Yeagers and the Ackermans II: The Similarities and the Contrasts

[admirxation]

彡 Secret - Leon Kennedy

father in law!Leon Kennedy x daughter in law!afab!reader | 18+ | 3.5k | oneshot

synopsis — Your husband goes on another business trip, an excellent time for you to seek affection with his father.

contents — 18+ heavy smut mdni, pseudo-incest (in-laws), cheating, slight hair pulling, thigh touching, dirty talk, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), tit play, unprotected sex (p in v), breeding kink, possessiveness (a little), and creampie // I do not condone everything I write, this is just fiction if you don’t like don’t read. Read the warnings and continue at our own discretion. I’ve provided ample warning.

tags: @mrswint3rs @elfven-blog (please check the taglist in my pinned post if you want to be tagged in future works)

The essence of secrecy lies in its concealed nature; it is meant to evade the awareness of others in confidence between only a select few, often confined to a mere duo. The revelation of this can imperialise many involved. However, the enigmatic nature of maintaining a secret is undeniably captivating; it entices individuals to guard and preserve its sanctity. The prospect of clandestine knowledge imparts a sense of thrill; it can keep the individual’s heart pumping with adrenaline each second that goes past, and each day, it finds another day to survive between the knowing. Yet, beneath that surface of excitement, the weight of culpability lingers, a moral unease inherent in the act of concealment, the feeling of guilt inhabiting the consciousness of the one keeping it, especially with the amount of gravity certain secrets have—like the one you were holding with Leon. 

When you first sought comfort with your father-in-law, you thought this was going to be a one-time moment of weakness, a feeling that it was just happening through the disconnect with your husband, a moment of letting your desires warp your mind and your morals—but this soon escalated into ‘one time’ being apart of continuous routine. Tiptoeing into his room, sneaking away when your husband was at work, betraying your vows, those sacred words that shouldn’t be tarnished for a few moments of fun, but you were indulging in breaking those promises every moment you lied in Leon’s arms, every moment you let his form engulf you in its shadow, every moment you pressed your arms around him and left sweet kisses on his skin. 

When you wrapped yourself up in a blanket next to your husband, there was a phantom feeling of something tugging at your heart, like a hand squeezing and pulling at it, pushing down into the form of a cold spike feeling travelling down into the pit of your stomach whenever you pictured the inevitable moment when your husband would find out; you weren’t completely stupid, you knew that this would all come out sooner or later, especially with the fact that you were cheating with your husbands father. This wasn’t some secret or tall tale that you could take to the grave with you; no, this was something that needed to be known; it was starting to become more than just bodily fulfilment with another; there was a connection in your betrayal, an emotional one that whenever you parted from his presence you craved to be back into it, and not just through lust, through romantic interest like you formerly had with your husband. The feeling of guilt was only natural when these affairs were starting. Still, it all started to melt away when your husband reciprocated the distance, as well as the infidelity you were providing in the relationship. 

There has always been a lack of chemistry and connection within the relationship; when you first met each other in college, it started as a casual sexual relationship, meeting each other whenever your roommates were gone and finding some late-night indulgences. Then it rolled into something more serious. It was all a blur now; you remember a casual to serious relationship shift; you noticed this when you first met his father. You always thought he was attractive, but you never thought he would be the person you wanted to be with. You felt trapped in this relationship. Granted, your husband never pushed you into that decision, but you felt dependent on him for what he provided, all the benefits he gave you, and even pulled you up in the ranks of your job position; you did owe a lot to him. However, this lack of connection was always found in his wandering eye. 

He always had a wandering eye for every woman who passed but never acted on it…until now. 

You never blamed him or felt betrayed, hell you didn’t even cry or wince in reaction when you were met with the vision of the text messages he shared with his secretary; you just turned the phone off and pretended to be the innocent wife, oblivious to it all; but when you saw those messages, you could only feel… relief? Relief that you weren’t hurting someone in love with you anymore, relief that both of you were aware of this trapped marriage. You were hoping this affair would be the trigger to make him throw the divorce papers in your face, something you were too cowardly to do. 

You were waving off your partner for another business trip; it made you laugh when he would always make up some extravagant lie, always bringing up names to make his lie seem more believable; of course, you always knew when he was lying, he would never maintain eye contact, and whenever you asked who was going, you saw his eyes widen and look around the room trying to remember what he fabricated a few days earlier. If anything, you admired how far he would go. Sometimes, you wondered if he was just doing this to spite you for sleeping with his father, but you didn’t care; you just wanted him gone longer so you could spend time with Leon. 

When telling Leon this, he laughed at how his son was trying to make things even, though he knew his son was awful at covering his tracks; after all, he had known him all his life; he knew what his son was capable and incapable of. When learning the information that your son is cheating on their wife, it arranges multiple reactions. Some people simply do not care, and some even blame the wives. Others will be shocked at their son's behaviour, knowing they didn’t raise him like this and will be there for their daughter-in-law. But Leon, oh, Leon intensely disliked how his son never fully appreciated you. He was also glad that his weak ability to be a husband granted him the opportunity to give the woman whom he couldn’t stop thinking about the attention she deserved. When learning of another business trip his son was going on, he just smirked when hearing your tempting words through the phone, knowing exactly what you were planning and insinuating. 

“He can spend all the time he wants with… Whatever her name is… Now, come to mine; I know you’re free.” 

When you heard those words on the phone, you were quick to leave your house, locking the door and jumping into your car for a few-minute journey to him; you felt your heart flutter and jump within your chest every time the tyre rolled further to your destination, every turn and bend you had on the road, all of it adding to that feeling of impatience whenever you were stopped by traffic. 

You didn’t have to knock; you already had a key to make your way whenever you wanted to, whenever you wanted a late-night roll around when your husband was in a night of deep sleep or having ‘overtime’ at work. You made your way to the staircase and ascended into his room. 

Leon was sitting at his desk, working alone. It was clear that he was probably waiting for you to come a bit later, considering this time of day harboured the most traffic. 

He greeted you with a smile, dropping his pen and looking you up and down under his scrutiny; you felt undressed under his gaze with those longing and erotic states; the tension between you two was undeniable every time you were together, all those pent up desires every time you couldn’t be together all bursted within an explosion of desire whenever people were out of the picture. You could fulfil everything you two thought of. When no one was around, his house was the realm where the secret wasn’t something to hide, but something accepted between you two, something loved by you two. 

You pushed away his work to one side, positioning yourself in between his legs before pushing yourself up to the table, feeling a jolt course through your body when you felt Leon’s large hands slide to the sides of your waist, roaming and sliding down to the plush of your thighs, continuing to maintain that lustrous stare that always made you weak whenever looking deeply back into that blue undressing gaze. 

“It’s rude to ignore a guest, especially when you invite them, Leon,” you said to him, looking down and watching as he took the free invitation to keep touching you, pushing his hands under the flap of your dress, feeling your soft and smooth skin as he caressed you further; a smirk playing at his lips as he witnessed you subtly parting your legs as he continued to keep touching, providing him with a further invitation. 

“True. Especially one that is so beautiful; where are my manners?” he looked up at you as you bent your head forward to meet him, your lips being mere moments away from his, letting that tension arise between the both of you; you leaned in to let him give you a soft and tender kiss, a kiss that slowly increased into further sensual deep interlocks between you two. 

He pushed one of his hands to the back of your head, tangling his fingers within the strands of your hair, slightly tugging at it to make you release soft winces; you bit your lip as you two both continued to share erotic eye contact that was already creating a knot within your stomach and made your heartbeat deeper and your breaths deeper. As you were lost in those pools of blue, you expressed a sharp and high-pitched gasp when his fingers led to your clothed core, feeling the tips of his fingers rub circles around, pulling sweet and tender moans from you. 

“How long is he gone for?”

“A week,” Leon pushed his fingers with harder pressure as he rubbed your sensitive bud through the wet patch already formed from his long digits. 

“Good. A week with me, would you like to stay here, darling? I wouldn’t want you to be lonely,” you could only release a nod as you pressed your lips into a line, squeezing your eyes shut as he pushed his index and middle finger deeper and circulated in a clockwise motion—from just a tiny amount of time he knew what would drive you crazy. “Use your words, sweetheart; I can’t mind read,” he tilted his head to the side as he waited for you to open your mouth. 

“Yes, I would, yes I would want that,” you managed to fabricate your chosen words in a breathy release as he quicked his motions, moans wanting to erupt already to replace your words.

“Am I already driving you crazy?” you nodded again, “I love it when you’re easy for me… And only me,” his words were elongated, arousal and stimulation within the way he spoke that made your core flutter in excitement and anticipation, even more so when he wrapped the tip of his finger around the side of your already soaked panties, and slowly pushing them to the side, he wasn’t going to rush this no matter how many times he felt you, he always wanted to savour the feeling of making you his. 

He lifted your skirt even further to witness your glistening cunt, feeling your heat as he lingered his fingers around your inner thigh, teasing you even more, not knowing when he was going to draw more moans from you, simply with his fingers.

“Do you want to feel good, sweetheart?” you nodded, looking down and spreading your legs even further, “You’re such a dirty little slut for me, aren’t you? Yet you won’t just leave him.” 

You had been thinking of leaving your husband ever since you started this affair with Leon, and he wasn’t going to leave it alone until you were his, not just in bodily and emotional connection, but under the eyes of the law and society, he wanted everyone to know that you were his girl. 

“You know it w-won’t be any longer,” your breathing hitched as you waited for Leon’s fingers to creep themselves inside you, feeling a tingle and tightening sensation within your stomach the way he looked at you with those eyes that controlled all your feelings. 

He ran his thumb over your soft mouth, his other fingers on his left hand rubbing your wet slit, dragging the tips of his fingers along your soaked cunt. Hearing your heavy breathing, he pulled you back for another kiss, his tongue entering your mouth and swirling and sliding on yours, enjoying every minute and surprised little noise secreted from your mouth, muffled by his kisses. He pushed his long and thick digits inside you, slowly, pulling a long and quiet moan as he bit your bottom lip in between kisses, feeling him slowly pump and curl his fingers as your walls tightened around them. 

“Does my dirty girl want more?” he whispered to you in between kisses, “and I expect you to use your manners.” He always loved to have that cocky attitude with you, always loving to have the upper hand, knowing you melted every time you felt his touch, forever in his submission. 

“Yes, please, Leon,” you begged. 

“Good girl.”

He left one final wet kiss on your lips before pushing his chair away with a harsh kick and letting his face be in front of your pussy, your aching pussy that was craving him all through the journey, that craved him every night and day when you were apart. He kissed lightly at your pussy before enclosing your clit with his lips, interlocking with your wet and soft folds, his tongue lapping and dancing around your sensitive cluster of nerves, continuing to pump his long fingers inside you, circling your bud over and over again in perfect rhythm to pushing his digits further into your throbbing cunt, feeling his cock harden inside his pants every time your taste lingered around in his mouth, every time he took ownership with having fun with you. 

“All mine,” he quickly said as he continued to press his face back in between your thighs, his hand massaging your thigh, “I’ll never get tired of tasting you,” you felt him smile against you, his breathing deepening as you continued to moan for him. 

“Fuck, Leon-” your back arched as your fingers messed through his blonde locks, tugging and ruffling as your head continued to be kicked back. Your eyes squeezed shut as you let his soft lips continue to be attached to your clit, sucking and circling it, his fingers keeping you on the edge and making your toes curl with each load of erotic sound to fill the room’s atmosphere. Leon loved how much you squirmed as you tensed every muscle in your body when feeling that pleasure course through you at the hands and skill of Leon; you felt a pulsating scream ready to roll through your body as you whined from the stimulation; Leon continued to put you over the edge as he increased the speed and rhythm, setting another catalyst for your first orgasm so he threw his hand on your breast and squeezed it tightly, your skin poking out in the gaps of his fingers, later rolling your hardened nipple with his fingers while hungrily lapping his tongue around your clit, like being indulged into an addictive sweet treat. 

“Leon!” you screamed like you always did, and he continued to love hearing those sounds. 

Your thighs continue to tighten, your pussy spasming, and Leon’s tongue awaiting as you squeezed your eyes shut and engaged your core, releasing a clear and delicious release into his mouth, inviting Leon to lick up every drop and savouring the flavour only he craved every morning and night. He licked up a strip of your pussy, slowly pulling his fingers away as he watched your chest move up and down in rapid action with your changed breathing patterns. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not done yet,” he cooed as he licked his lips, watching your face beg for more. Your heart practically leapt when hearing those words, ready for whatever dictation he will provide for you. 

He continued to unbutton and drop his pants down, his erection bouncing out and exposing its red blushed tip already leaking with precum from just receiving the taste of you; you moved off the table and were ready to feel him deep inside, but his next words stopped you momentarily. 

“Why don’t you just leave him when he comes back… He’s got somebody… And I don’t want us to keep being secretive,” his hands were placed on your hips, you hoovering over him and feeling your heartbeat move at a quicker pace. “I make you feel better than he ever did. Marry me instead. I know that’s what you want, baby,” a blush crept on your cheeks as he continued to rub your sides, putting pressure on you with his touch. 

“Hm, sorry for putting you on the spot, let’s resume-” 

“Yes. I will. I will leave him for you.”

Leon’s eyes widened; you no longer felt his touch pressure down onto your skin. He stopped there momentarily as if time had frozen within his body clock.

Then that smirk came back. That knowing smirk of him finally getting his way, that smirk revealing he could finally have you and not just as an affair, he wouldn’t want to give a damn what others thought; he finally had you, and having you was all that mattered to him. 

“Come here, you,” he growled as he pulled your underwear, his eagerness igniting impatience as he pulled hard enough for the delicate fabric to rip, the threads pulling out in intricate patterns, pulled down to the carpeted floor; you didn’t care as he pulled you and sat you on his lap, feeling his cock push inside your wet, throbbing, squelching cunt as he aggressively thrusted you down on him, hearing the slap of your skin come crashing down on his thighs, erupting another deep moan out of you as you felt his large cock pressed inside and wrapped around your tight and warm walls. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight, baby.” You bounced with the help of Leon’s hands tucked underneath your ass and bouncing you on his member, pushing along his length further inside of you as he felt a craving that now belonged to him, “God. You feel amazing,” he continued to hiss as he felt you, his cock continuing to twitch as he heard your continuous gasps and moans. 

“Mmm, you’re so good,” you managed to get the words out as his large hands continued to grip your ass, watching his eyes darken with lust and possession as he watched your tits bounce in front of him with every thrust he pumped inside of you. 

“Just like that,” you found the perfect rhythm for him, “Umpth, you’re doing so good, baby,” he kicked his head back as you continued bouncing along his length, a red flush engulfing your pretty face, drool collecting at the corners of your mouth as you continued to scream for Leon and watch his perfect frame push inside of you. 

You whimpered as he squeezed your ass hard, your walls clenching around his dick even harder and making his desperation to finish inside you grow as you screamed his name again, releasing another loud luscious orgasm that drove Leon crazy with the fact he knew your body so well. 

“Cum for me, Leon,” you whispered, “you know I want to feel it. You know I love it,” you continued to push Leon when you saw that look in his eyes, knowing he was close. 

“Hmm, god,” he continued to growl as he felt your pussy tighten around him, “Oh sweetheart, I don’t just need a ring to prove to-to everyone you chose the better man… I need to fucking breed that, that perfect pussy,” he couldn’t create a perfect sentence without being interrupted with the odd messing up of words, focusing on trying not to cum until he finally let this words out; the effort to not release inside you was building up, beads of sweat were forming across his forehead and his chest puffed out in deeper breathing. 

“Do it then, I’m all yours.” 

A glimmer crossed his blue gaze as he pumped his last belligerent thrusts inside of you, his arms wrapped around your waist tightly. His face buried in your tits as he released his white and creamy cum inside of your walls, shooting inside of you with desperation, slowly pushing it further inside you, the head of his cock continuing to bash against your cervix as he fucked his seed further inside of you. His actions released a long, drawn-out moan escaping your glossy lips, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your formerly tense body melted back into relaxation and your breathing becoming laboured as you felt his cum pool inside of you, the rest trickling down your sticky thighs as you tried to catch you breath. 

A secret is always fun to keep, but it eventually comes out, whether from being revealed by another or from people no longer being able to keep it inside and wanting the whole world to know.

please remember the best way of supporting writers is by liking and reblogging, i give everyone love who has taken the time of their day to read what i have created, thank you *kiss kiss*.

[cupcraft]

Some easy cooking/meal tips as an adult grad student:

You dont need to chop amazingly perfectly and meticuously. At the end of the day chop safely and however. If it tastes good its good.

Instant things can make things 1000% easier for yourself. Instant mash/instant mac/instant rice/instant pasta/etc. Add Frozen things. Add premade things. Your dishes don't have to be from scratch at all aspects ever. Do what is easiest for you and delicious!

You can use pre-ground spices. I know, yes, whole spices and roasting them and grinding them and using a mortar/pestle yourself is delicious and wondrous. But you can use preground spices to save time. You can use a food processor to blend spices/garlic/etc. together.

If you struggle with making too much food (ie food waste concern), try to make dishes you know will freeze well that way you can have leftovers that store for a long time (ie potatoes dont necessarily freeze well imo, whereas rice freezes just fine!). I also recommend just halving recipes and try to shoot for as many portions is suitable for you.

Uh oh made too much rice? What do I do and i dont want to freeze it? 1-2 days in the fridge and you have rice that is going to make an excellent fried rice. You always want to use old rice! And you can put whatever you want in it!

Canned food is okay. Canned food is okay. Canned food is okay. Eat canned meats, fish, vegetables, etc. Imo some canned veggies arent my favorite flavor wise but if you like it and it works USE IT.

Add mayo to each side of your bread when making grilled cheese. It'll make a great brown crust in a buttered pan.

American/processed/velveeta like cheese is fine. Its delicious it melts well its totally fine. Stop demonizing processed foods and "preservatives". Velveeta/kraft cheeses are going to melt so perfectly for your grilled cheese the end.

Instant pots & slow cookers & air fryers can make your life a lot easier, and at least for instant pots/slow cookers I find them easier to clean!

Meal planning will really help you. Plan what you want to eat every week (or as far ahead as it helps you). Pre-cut vegetables. Buy meat in bulk and freeze/thaw as needed. Etc. Prepping/planning will make your life easier!

You can often buy shrimp that is pre-peeled & deveined, and even pre-cooked. This makes cooking time easier and faster.

It's okay to order takeout if you dont have the energy to cook. Its okay to order takeout if you do have the energy to cook. Enjoy and treat yourself.

Preboiling your potatoes (tender but not fully done) then baking them can make a crispier roasted potato.

[liveyun]

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

← previous | chapter index | taglist | main masterlist | next →

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 💌

[fine-nephrit]

🥏 Where to find good XF fanfics

👽 On Tumblr

@lilydalexf has an encyclopedic knowledge of fics and continues to be an invaluable resource. You'll find a boatload of themed fic lists, individual rec posts and helpful answers to anon asks.

@txf-fic-chicks-blog seven years of almost daily recs, with well-written blurbs and a lot of fun, run by @kateyes224 and @piecesofscully. Look out for their themed days: "Casefile Monday", "Tumblr Tuesday", "Editor's Pick Wednesday", "Post-Ep/Missing Scene Thursday", "Novel Length Friday", "Smut Sunday", and the very cool "Because You Watched"

@msrlibrary a well-tagged library of MSR fics; each entry includes a short excerpt and a nicely chosen image from the show.

@201daysofxfiles a rewatch blog by fandom veteran @wendelah. Each episode in season 1-7 is paired with its own fic rec post.

@enigmaticxbee an aesthetically pleasing and neatly organized rewatch blog that is packed with great content, including excellent fic rec lists categorized by season, story type, trope, and more. Each episode guide sometimes features related fic recs.

@thatfragilecapricorn30 posts one fic rec every Friday, accompanied by a nice writeup.

@randomfoggytiger curates many fic rec lists sorted by often fun and creative categories.

@cecilysass has a google doc titled "fics I love", which is a fantastic fic list categorized by story type, complete with thoughtful blurbs. She's also shared two episode-related fic rec lists on Tumblr: here and here.

@pookie-mulder writes a monthly fic journal with good recs.

**self-promo plug** I post fic recs on my Tumblr blog @fine-nephrit under #nephrit's fic rec. Plus, I reblog others' fic recs that I come across!

👽 Rec Communities

XF Book Club: the best thing ever, an absolute gem that deserves to be preserved for posterity. During its run, 270 fics were recced and discussed in depth here. The community's intelligent and insightful comments on this blog are sometimes even more enjoyable to read than the fics themselves.

The Fic Filter (xf tag): well-curated selections with short blurbs.

Multifandom Het Recs (xf tag): a major rec site's xf section that offers nice "why this must be read" writeups. @het-reccers

Crack Van (xf tag): another major rec site with a big xf section, featuring endless recs and blurbs

Fancake (xf tag): another major rec community's xf section boasting an extensive thematic tagging system

👽 Personal Blogs

Emily Shore aka Naraht: meta essays, fanvid recs, fic recs—great stuff aplenty

Bad for the Fish aka Scarlet Baldy: fantastic fic list paired with highly enjoyable reviews and analyses of the fics she's read. @badforthefish

Ramblings of a Mind Untamed: reviews of a dozen or so classic fics

xxSKSxx XF Fanfic Recs: still active in 2024! @xxsksxxx

X-Libris: more of a fic library, this is the best place to download nicely-formatted ebooks of pre-AO3 oldies. What I love most is the incredibly detailed and extensive tagging system.

👽 Individual Rec Lists with good writeup

Character Manifesto - Dana Scully: a character analysis and 10 Scully-centric fic recs, categorized by "best of .." selections. Amazing format and choices!

Character Manifesto - Fox Mulder: same format as above for Spooky

bachlava's awesome fic rec essays, covering classic fics and slash fics

ShipRecced blog's classic MSR fics and newer MSR fics recs

luminary's 16-fic rec post

RivkaT recs fics and writers @rivkat

Anna Otto's favorite stories

Syntax6's rec list on her site, great rec list on Tumblr and FTF rec list @syntax6

👽 90s Old School Rec Sites

The Basement Office - Musea: a treasure trove of extensive fic lists with lovely written blurbs, recced by a group of talented writers from back in the day

The Other Side - Fanfic Recs from Beyond the Grave: a large collection of 'scary' or 'spooky' story recs with nice blurbs. Beautiful web design.

the Rookery - Favorite Authors: nice commentary on a list of classic fic writers

X-Files Fanfiction 101: an intro guide to fic categories and what to read for each

The Primal Screamers: a fun site run by a mailing list that hosts fic recs with blurbs, and a 'Coffee Talk' section full of delightful discussions of canon

Idealists Haven - Elemental Fanfic Archive: an archive with rec blurbs

Chronicle X: a large, well-organized archive with blurbs, plus a 'Can We Talk' discussion section of novel-length fics, plus a total of 46 author interviews. Simply incredible!

👽 Special Mention

The X-Files Lost and Found: a fic finder message board that is miraculously still very active today—How wonderful! Its FAQ page hosts a huge collection of well-categorized themed fic lists (not recs), including "Classics (or, Your Fanfic Education is Not Complete Until You've Read ...)".

Where do you find your next read? What did I miss? Reblog and share your favorites!

[rboooks]

The bakery is a front....right? PART 4

Dedicated to @foxy-tea. Thank you for your lovely words!

Danny didn't want to do it, but he had to admit that his mating season peak had arrived and could not work in that condition. It wasn't that Danny was like a cat in heat, wanting to engage in intercourse all the time.

No, his body craved a life partner and a child to smother in fierce paternal love. It was a bit worse if you asked him. If he just manwhore his way through the city over three months, well, they would just whisper about how easy he was.

A bit embarrassing but not uncommon for someone with Danny's good looks.

Instead, his mating season made him a would-be kidnapper.

He had to physically slam a hot pot of coffee on his hand a week ago when a customer had walked in with a baby, and Phantom had tried to leap over the counter to take the babbling bundle of joy as his own.

Not to mention how Phantom reacted to some of his youngest delivery employees. He hadn't realized he was mumbling "Mine. mine. mine. mine. mine" while approaching Manolo for his latest delivery until Peter had stepped into his path with the dirtiest glare Danny had ever seen.

The punch to his throat hadn't knocked the wind out of him- since Phantom had stopped his breathing three days prior - but it was enough to get Danny out of the daydreams of tucking Manolo into bed after a cup of tea and a bedtime story.

We could teach him to bake. We can teach him to ride a bike. We can sit through all his school performances, no matter how bad they are. We could be his dad. Phantom had cried as Manolo had thrown himself between Peter and Danny, his little arms spread wide to protect him. Let me have the child! Manolo is mine! He's mine to love, mine to protect!

Danny had never had such trouble getting Phantom to settle.

In seconds, Peter was quickly surrounded by Andres' friends and the rest of Danny's staff. He had taken a fighter position, looking around like an animal about to maul its victims while Danny wrestled with himself to get control.

He and Phantom are not two separate personalities fighting for control but one person with conflicting instincts.

One of a human's most basic instincts is self-preservation. A ghost's most basic instinct is self-fulfillment.

Danny did not want things to become a free-for-all where someone could get hurt. Phantom tried to fight them all to claim the kids under his protection.

Thankfully, everything was deescalated by Jazz's timely arrival. Danny couldn't really remember what she had done (too busy struggling to hold himself as a human and not go ghost to become the most excellent dad to ever dad). Still, if there was one gift Jazz had, it was being able to reason with spirits about their obsessions.

If she could convince beings whose entire existence depended on being stubborn about a particular subject, she could persuade humans of anything.

Peter had been allowed to leave with no injuries, and even two days paid off, while the rest had realized that the man had just acted out of PTSD due to what Jazz called "projecting trauma in safe settings."

There were a lot of people in this area that understood what PTSD episodes did to them and had not faulted Petter. Manolo even gave Peter a small crocheted fox to help him overcome the fear.

(Danny had given the small fox plushy to Manolo when the kid first arrived at his bakery, proclaiming it had a protective spell to keep fear away. He had yet to be aware the boy carried around with him.)

Jazz had then taken Danny to his apartment, where she had placed him in quarantine. She had been informed by Frost Bite during their bi-weekly mentor/protegee meetings- Jazz was studying under the Yeti in Ghost Psychology- that Danny's Peak had arrived. Danny would jack up his "I need to be a dad" and "I need to be a husband" urges to Fruitloop levels.

Danny would try to force someone into that role if he was around humans or ghosts, even if it was against their will. Ugh, he would be a Vlad 2.0 for a full two weeks!

He could not risk himself around others. So with a heavy heart, he informed his employees he would be stepping away for a two-week long vacation and had made it seem like he left on a plane to visit Jazz overseas.

His staff would take care of the bakery for him, but it saddened Danny he could not be there to help with things. He then sealed off all entries to his apartment and informed the residents of the Ghost zone he was in, "Mating Peak retreat," so no one would bother him past a few already mated servants of the Ghost King.

They would bring him supplies and requests through a no-contact portal once he ordered them through a magical catalog. It was like online shopping for ghosts.

Danny now had to wait two weeks for this to finally go away, and he could go about his ordinary daily life of being perfectly dead and alive. Until it happened again the following year.

Elli told him to be grateful it was only a yearly thing, not a monthly deal. He shuddered at the mere thought of experiencing this every month.

Done! Phantom cheers snapping Danny back to reality. In his hands are a pair of freshly crocheted booties. He hadn't even been aware he was making them.

They look great, Danny tells Phantom, turning them in his hands to smile at the giant sunflowers on each side. A button was used as the center of the flowers, and Phantom even included a few lace designs around them to look like leaf vines.

They are based on the park's flowers.

The park?

Yes, the park where you promised to take me today! Phantom goes from calmly talking to screaming, and Danny winces.

You know I can't go outside. You'll just try to steal a child from the park.

I would never forget to also steal a wife or husband!

Danny sighs, rubbing his face knowing he was telling himself that forgetting a spouse was worse than the idea of kidnapping people. He places the booties on top of an ever-growing pile. Since his quarantine has begun, Danny has made about two hundred pairs of various styles, sizes, and colors.

Danny looks around at the piles and piles of other of his crocheting projects. He's got sweaters, scarves, gloves, socks, hats, beanies, and even blazers for various genders, ages, and styles meant to help with the coldest winter. He could adequately dress his whole street and still have some left over.

All prepared for his nonexisting family.

He has been making them at the same speed he can fly, i.e., 200 mph. He's made some yarn dealers in the zone extremely wealthy. He can't help it, though. Danny has frozen every inch of his apartment too far too cold levels for an average human without proper wear.

He's been working fast because his human mind knew that the cold was terrible for his lover and children, so it wanted to keep them nice and warm. While his ghost side added layers of snow to the floor and ice to the walls, he even made decorative ice sculptures that he desperately reorganized again and again to find the perfect balance of the cold. Only his electronics were not frozen over, so even his furniture had layers of ice- some with designs to make them look fancier.

He's also cooked up a storm in preparation for feeding his family. Only to realize a spouse and kids were not coming, thus forcing him to donate his meals to the ghost delivery people. They were ever so happy to have five-course meals shoved at them just for bringing the king more yarn.

Danny throws himself face-first into the pile of snow from his couch, allowing the softness to cushion his fall. There is a terrible itch under the skin. It's begging him to leave to find someone to kiss and worship. Unwillingly, Alvin's face appears in his mind before he turns over and stares at his ceiling. He's made all the constellations into small carvings on the ice. I can't go outside. I can watch another movie or make more bagels instead.

Watching another romance movie won't bring me a mate! Phantom hisses.

I know but-

Suddenly Danny senses flair as someone crosses over his wards. Sitting up in alarm, Danny makes a break for his room as even more people join the first and break into his guest room through a window. Not that he can't take whoever they are, but if he comes face to face with them-well, Danny thinks he may keep them.

That's not something he's willing to risk.

Phantom is already throwing out some severe pheromones that would likely infatuate them to Danny, babbling about this being their chance. Four adults- spouses!- and a child- a son or daughter!- have entered their main haunt. They had to give them food and warm clothes and cuddle them until they never left!

No!

He can't force them to stay!

He had to make them stay even if it meant chaining them!

No, they would be miserable!

Phantom could make them happy forever!

The effort to stay in his human control took so much effort Danny started to aggressively twitch as he fumbled with the hidden room in the back of an old wardrobe. He's breathing heavily, trying to get his blurry vision to focus so he can open the darn thing and get in. Finally, it does, and Danny just barely closes it when a figure bursts through the door.

He watches through a small crack as the figure carefully looks over his frozen domain. It's one of the vigilantes. Red Robin.

What is he doing here?

The man walks into his room, leaving behind disruptive snow that goes up his ankles.

Thank the Ancients, his footprints do not appear in his own snow. Otherwise, a perfect trail would lead the hero straight to him. Instead, he watches with a hand over his mouth as Red Robin carefully searches his room.

Danny cuts off his need to breathe as the sound would give him away. Still, he's twitching so much that he's practically shaking as the hero carefully breaks the ice over his drawers and pulls out his clothes in quick, careful movements.

Go away. Go away. Go away. Danny thinks desperately. He should have tried calling someone. Jazz. Ellie. Even his parents or Vlad!

None of them would cause his instincts to want to force them to play house- though he would likely still try to imprison them since he would like to protect them non the less.

But they could at least do something and get the poor vigilante somewhere safe!

Never leave. Never leave. Never leave. Phantom purrs, and oh no, an intense burst of pheromones is sent through the room. Red Robin freezes; from what little Danny can see of his face, it's flushed red, and gosh, he wants to smother that man in so much love-

"Guys, I think I came in contact with the drug," Red Robin pants after pressing his hand to his ear. "I don't know how, but I am definitely feeling something. Think it's airborne, but not sure."

He doesn't finish his sentence before Redhood and Nightwing are suddenly in his room. Nightwing has a gas mask over his face while Red Hood swings a gun around the room, looking for a target.

Danny almost whines at the gentle way Nightwing helps Red Robin into a sitting position. He's looking him over with such loving protection that he- that Danny- Phantom wants him- wants a husband-!

"Shit," Red Hood hisses, body pushing back as if some strong wind had hit him. "Yeah, it's definitely in this room. Felt a bit of it, even with my built-in filters. Wing?"

"Did the room get colder?" Nightwing asks as he helps Red Robbin to his feet. The other man seems to be feeling better with his gas mask, but he must still be effect by Phantom's pheromones.

"The wardrobe." Red Robin gasps, pointing unknowingly right at Danny. "The ice around it is getting bigger. And...it's leaking."

What? Danny looks down only to see in horror a knocked-over jar of fresh ectoplasm. He hadn't even been aware he had broken the thing when he crawled here.

The jars were the ones that he gathered with Jazz and Ellie after a three-day foraging trip. All ghosts were made of Ecoplasim, but just like you couldn't stick blood into someone without being comparable, you couldn't use any random ectoplasm for other people- humans or ghosts.

It had to be some of the purest natural kind, not linked to any type of beings, like a river of ectoplasm or the frozen pillars in the farthest parts of the Far Frozen. Giving someone ectoplasm from one's body could taint them in the donator's obsession.

Yes, Danny could make more people protective of each other, but it would likely cause them to be Fruitloop-level protective. They just didn't have the filter like he did to not go mad.

That pure kind was now leaking out of his hiding place and into the white snow of his main lair.

Danny only has a second to panic before the door is wrenched open, and he falls into a stunned Red Robin.

He goes limp from the shock as Phantom purrs, settling in his mind now that he's pressed against a possible mate. Like Danny said, it's not intercourse his ghost side is after, it's close contact, and this is enough to satisfy it.

"Shit, it's Danny. He-he's not breathing, and he's ice cold. I think he's de-dead." Red Robin says in what sounds like tears.

No. My husband is sad. Danny and Phantom think, a terrible pulse of pain bursting across his chest. He can't get his body to move to offer comfort, though. It's been a whole week since he last saw someone in person, and this is so nice. Why did he ever fight this instinct? It felt so good to give in.

He could stay in Red Robin's arms forever.

Red Robin was never going to see the clear sky again. He was never leaving this apartment.

"I found something," Red Hood's voice is behind him. "It looks like it is Lazarus' water, but it's clearer. I think this is our drug. Danny must have ODed."

"No! He can't- we have to do something!" Red Robin cries, and Danny slumps further against him like a broken doll. He's not blinking. Blinking is for humans. Danny isn't a human.

His unfocused eyes stare at wherever Red Robin has him positioned to look.

"There is nothing we can do, Red Robin," A new voice says though not unkindly. Phantom doesn't turn his head but can see Batman walk up behind Red Robin, wearing his gas mask. He places his hand on the trembling vigilante. "You need to put him down."

"No!" Phantom purs as the arms around his shoulders bring them closer to his husband's body.

"It's too late for him, Drake. We can only honor his death."

That....that was a voice of a child. A child is in his main haunt.

Phantom wails in joy.

He gets out of his husband's arms, leaping over Batman, and his arms are around a boy in red, green, and yellow. Phantom smothers his face against the hood covering the boy's head, and short sobs rank his body. "My baby! You're my baby!"

"Unhand me!" His little grunts slamming a knife into Phantom's side, but that doesn't matter because Phantom has his son and his husband in his nest.

A bullet harmlessly passes through his forehead after a loud bang, creating a hole in Phantom's wall. He'll take care of that after he smothers his baby in cuddles.

Nightwing swings a baton at Phantom, but that, too, passes through his body without harm.

"Shit! Danny put him down!"

Huh, was that Sam?

"Danny, I mean it. Drop him!"

Oh, Tucker too!

"Daniel Fenton, you let that boy go right now!" Jazz sounded upset. Maybe she should hold his baby. "Are you listening to me?"

"Danny is not here right now." He hears his body say.

"Ohhhhh. That's not good. Okay, Danny time for a nap!" Ellie flies into his face, her hand glowing green and he has a moment to gasp at the betrayal before she blasts him.

He drops, knowing no more.

(Part 1), (Part 2), (Part 3), (Part 5)

[blueiscoool]

17th-Century Silver Coin Hoard Discovered in Wettin Germany

Archaeologists from the State Office for Monument Preservation and Archaeology Saxony-Anhalt (LDA) have discovered a large 17th century coin hoard during construction works at a farmstead in the town of Wettin, Germany.

Situated in the heart of Wettin, the farmstead has been maintained by the Altstadt Wettin e. V. since 2018. The organisation is dedicated to preserving the town’s cultural heritage, which is at risk of being demolished due to modern development.

The bourgeois farmstead dates from the 16th to 17th century and can be traced to the time of the end of the Thirty Years’ War via written sources. From 1681, the building served as the town’s pharmacy, as indicated by remnants of an 18th-century baroque stucco ceiling and an Apotheke vault.

Construction work at the farmstead has uncovered a hoard of 17th-century coins in the gate area leading to the central courtyard. Archaeologists found 285 silver coins in layers of compacted soil, which were sent to the restoration workshop of the LDA Saxony-Anhalt.

The hoard was likely deposited in the late 1650’s, with more than half of the coins being silver thalers, a currency used by several states of Northern Germany, first under the Holy Roman Empire, then by the German Confederation. The rest of the hoard consists of thaler fragments and various groschen coins.

Among the hoard are the so-called Schreckenberg grochen coins and Albertus thalers minted in the Spanish Netherlands. There are also coins minted by the German emperors, the Duchy of Brunswick-Lüneburg, the Archduke Albert VII of Austria, and King Philip IV of Spain.

According to the LDA: “In addition to its scientific significance, the Wettin coin find is also an excellent example of the important contributions that voluntary work in close cooperation with the responsible authorities for the preservation of buildings and archaeological monuments can make to our knowledge of the history of Saxony-Anhalt.”

By Mark Milligan.

[undertheorangetree]

Cherry Wine

Summary- Coriolanus returns to the Capitol with his most prized possession.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Female reader. Technically TBOSAS spoilers. Reader is essentially Lucy Gray. Really incredibly toxic relationship. Choking. Fingering. P in V sex. This is technically kidnapping.

Author’s Note- I wasn’t sure if this was ever gonna actually see the light of day but I am a lush little creature so enjoy. This is part 2 to In the Woods Somewhere but can probably be read as a standalone?? Either way full story linked below :)

She hates the Capitol. She has hated it since the first moment she set eyes on it. Admittedly, she had not seen much when she first arrived- thrown in a cage at the zoo, paraded through the streets, dragged into the arena- but it had been enough to forge an opinion. She hates the opulence, the disgusting displays of wealth. The way everything of value is flaunted and passed around as if it’s frivolous and easily replaced. How the towers loom over the wide streets, so different from the ramshackle buildings that make up Twelve. The way garbage is swept from the roadside the moment it appears, refusing for even a moment to appear as anything less than immaculate. Everything manicured. Everything perfect. Designed to make an impression, everything about it seems to grab you by the jaw and force you to look at the perfection of it all, nails dug in lest you attempt to look away. A perfectly ripe peach, all sunset pink with its soft, near endearing fuzz, hiding the rotten, maggot-ridden center underneath.

It's enough to make her miss the coal dusted streets of home.

The Snow penthouse- Coriolanus’s penthouse- seems to be the perfect example of Capitol excellence. The perfect patterns built into the tile in the bathrooms, the marble floors that seem to glitter beneath her feet, the paintings displayed behind thin sheets of glass to keep them perfectly preserved. She can see everything from up here, the highest apartment in the tallest building, and the longer she stares out the window, the more she comes to realize she hates to be so high up.

Or perhaps she simply hates that this bay window is the only view she gets of the outside world. The only view she has gotten in weeks.

She had regretted following Coriolanus onto that train the moment she set foot inside it but by then it had been too late. The doors had slid shut as silent as a wraith and she knows her face must have changed as he had half hauled her into one of the padded chairs and made her sit, watching her with his too blue eyes as if he were waiting for her to run. And had she thought she stood a chance, perhaps she would have. She should have. But then she had caught sight of the Avoxes serving them, standing silent and resigned in the corner and knew that should she cause a scene, she would likely share their fate.

So she had sat there uncomplainingly. Let him parade her back home and listened as the lies he told Grandma’am and Tigris flowed off his tongue like honey, hating the bits of truth sprinkled throughout. Holding her hand like a shackle as he told them how they had fallen in love. That he couldn’t possibly leave her behind. That she wasn’t really district, was she? Not like the others, not when she had never truly been one of them, not now that she was a Victor. The perfect lovestruck boy and his pretty little prize. Who could make them part now, separate them so soon after they had found each other? They had fawned all over him- and Tigris over her- so quickly it had made her skin crawl but still, she had said nothing, offering smiles she knew didn’t reach her eyes.

She had continued to say nothing when she heard him tell the Plinths just how sorry he was for Sejanus, that if he had known what he was doing, he would have stopped him. As he told them how dear his dead friend had been to him. Best friends. She had listened silently as the Plinth’s rewarded him for his devotion, handing him the keys to a lavish new penthouse for little more than his supposed loyalty, for loving their sweet, kind Sejanus. The keys to her self imposed prison.

Coriolanus had never told her how the Capitol had gotten its hands on the jabberjay that damned his lone friend to the hanging tree but he didn’t have to. She has had plenty of time to put that story together herself, sitting alone in his locked apartment while he attended the university and worked under Doctor Gaul planning for the next Games.

She is a Victor and though perhaps that should mean something, it has become clear that it doesn’t. Though people watched her Games, though she made an impression, the memories of those in the Capitol are fleeting. No Victor is remembered following their Games. They are congratulated for their victory and sent home on the first train, never to be seen or heard from again. They fade from the public eye quickly, forgotten before the next moon, and perhaps she would have been as well had she not caught Coriolanus’s attention. Had he not been her mentor, so enamoured with her that he would cheat to save her.

She blames herself just as much as she blame him. Curses herself for not being able to see behind that perfectly curated mask he presents to everyone who looks at him, for being distracted by his pretty blonde curls and handsome face. Had he been ugly or cruel or anything other than deceptively kind, perhaps she could have escaped all this unscathed. Gone back home to Twelve without having him falling behind her like some forgotten shadow. Even if she had lost the Games, at least then she would be free of him. But instead she had been little more than a moth drawn to a flame, her wings now singed and leaving her an easy meal to the predator who first spotted her.

Read the full story here