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27spoons · 12 days ago

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You Are a Memory. | Natalie Scatorccio

pairing: natalie scatorccio/gn!reader

summary: Natalie says goodbye to an old friend. (mid-late s2)

wc: 2350

warnings: mentions and depictions of suicide, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, y/n usage, natalie scatorccio cannot catch a break

a/n: i wont lie to yall and say this is an easy read. i was writing smut then started listening to the linked song, and, well.... here we are. here we are.

"Nat, you don't have to do this," Van says, breaking the quiet. "Maybe…" They glance around the room before gesturing to Travis, “Trav can take them down to the plane, keep them there 'til spring. You don’t have to be the one to do this—"

"I'm fine on my own." Nat snaps—too quickly. She regrets the bite the second it leaves her mouth. "I did it with Jackie, I'll do it with y/n." They wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do this, anyway, she leaves unsaid, tightening the seatbelt around her waist as she prepares to face the howling wind outside.

Unlike when she was carrying Jackie's bones to the plane, Nat doesn't stop to look back this time. God forbid she let the entire cabin see the way tears had started to spring to her eyes.

The wind batters against her exposed skin as the door to the cabin opens, but it does little to deter her as she steps out into the air, kicking the door shut behind her.

Your bones are already packed—neat, contained. A far cry from Jackie’s, scattered and scorched, cradled in a sheet like the aftermath of a storm. No, she takes you with far more care. She’d watched as Shauna carved your body open, face stone-still. She hadn’t looked away—not once.

Because in the end, wasn’t it her fault?

I was calling For the last time

"Have you seen y/n?" Nat asks, voice casual, maybe too casual, as she kicks snow from her boots. Another empty-handed hunt. "Found a piece of scrap wood. Figured they’d want it—been carving a lot, lately." She glances at the fireplace, the mantle lined with various woodland creatures and other shapes.

Mari makes a face and shakes her head, stirring the pot of… belt soup. Yum. "Nah, not since we crashed last night, I think." She pauses, considering. "Wait. Actually—yeah. I don’t think I’ve seen them since we fell asleep." She glances up at Nat, "Aren't you two like… besties? Shouldn't you know where they are?"

That makes Nat's jaw tense. Last night?

So the last time anyone saw you—was before they all fell asleep?

"Lot?" Nat whips her head around, looking for the former center back. "You seen them? You're always awake before anyone else?" She tries to steady her voice, but it’s already starting to shake—just like her hands.

Lottie considers Nat's question for a moment before shaking her head. "Not that I can remember."

Nat makes a slight sound and immediately throws on her boots again, preparing to go back out into the snow. "I gotta… this isn't like them. They wouldn't just vanish like this without a trace. It isn't like them."

"Wait, you're going back out?" Travis glances up from where he had sat near the fire, "Nat, we just spent hours out there. Maybe they're just taking a walk, or something." He dismisses her like she dismissed his concerns about Javi, but Nat doesn't hear any of it.

"If I'm not back by sunset, come looking for me." It's all the response she gives before she's out the door for the second time that day, trying not to give in to the panic that threatens to overwhelm her.

The walk to the plane feels longer than usual, her steps burdened by the heavy weight she carries—metaphorical and physical. The wind shrieks through the trees, dragging icy fingers across her cheeks, and she doesn't bother to wipe the tears that freeze as soon as they fall.

It feels wrong to bring you here. You don't belong here.

Sure, she did it with Jackie. But that had been about closure. Ritual. This? This is different.

This is a goodbye she hasn't earned, a goodbye she doubts that she'll ever earn.

The crunch of snow under her boots becomes almost unbearable. Rhythmic. Final. She wonders if you would've said something poetic about it—some half-assed line you'd mutter just to make her roll her eyes and secretly smile.

She tightens her grip on the bundle in her arms.

No, not a bundle. Not firewood. Not a pack of furs, or a dead buck.

You.

She hates how light you are now, all the weight of the meat and flesh that you had once worn cut from the bone, resting inside the stomachs of anemic and tachycardic teenagers who didn't value your sacrifice nearly as much as they should have.

The hull of the plane creaks as Nat steps into it, kicking her snow-covered boots on the floor as she walks towards the seat you had sat in when the plane went down, placing your bones carefully onto the cushions. A deep sigh leaves her as she kneels, her hands reverently splaying over the bag that carries you. "Fuck. I should’ve found you sooner." Her voice cracks, "I should've—you wouldn't have… if I'd just—" She presses a hand to her mouth as her eyes squeeze shut, "God, I'm so sorry."

We'd been here before They found pictures in the snow

"Y/N!" Nat calls out, boots crunching through the snow that had settled over the past few days. "C'MON! THIS ISN'T FUNNY!" She tries to coat it in anger, but you’d know better. You’d hear the crack—the fear under it.

It's been over an hour since she left the cabin.

An hour of calling your name.

An hour of holding her breath like that could keep the worst from happening.

The sun is starting to set over the horizon, and she knows that she doesn't have much time left before it becomes too dark even to find her way back to the cabin, so she heads to the last place she thinks you would be. Maybe it's the first place she should have gone, but this has always been a spot you two visited together. Why would you go there alone?

So, she makes her way to this small alcove that the pair of you had found over the summer, before you were worried about starving, before you were concerned about freezing to death in a cabin surrounded by malnourished and fatigued teenagers.

When she approaches the clearing, she almost sighs in relief when she sees your form, lying supine on the ground and staring at the treeline. But you're still. Too still.

"Oh, Jesus-Fucking-Christ, dude. You scared the shit outta—"

The snow underneath your arms is stained a dark crimson colour, the exact colour that Nat had seen game bleed after she had successfully landed a fatal shot between their eyes.

"No—" Her voice breaks, all semblance of sanity gone out the window. "No. No. No—"

She drops to her knees adjacent to your lifeless form, hands on your shoulders as she shakes you vigorously. "No, you aren't fucking doing this to me! You know I can't fucking do this with—without—" The first sob falls from her lips when it finally sets in just how pale and waxen you are.

Nothing else matters now. Her ears begin to ring, drowning out the already muted sounds of the forest, and she presses her forehead into your shoulder as the tears begin to streak down her cheeks. Her words collapse into broken sobs, muffled by your jacket as she clings to you like she could anchor you in place. Like if she just held on tight enough, you wouldn’t leave her again.

The silence in the plane feels just like the clearing.

Still. Too still.

Her hands, still red-raw from the cold, twitch as she brushes a bit of frost off the bag holding your bones. The skin is tight and shiny, fluid-filled sacs blooming at her knuckles—painful reminders of how long she's been in the cold, of what she'd do just to carry you back here herself.

"You looked so peaceful," she murmurs. "I fucking hated that." A scoff leaves her throat, watery and laced with pain. "You never looked like that when you were…" alive.

Nat's jaw tenses as she looks down at the ripped-up carpet that lines the plane floor, blood-stained and perfectly resembling the emotional turmoil that bubbles beneath the surface.

"Even when you were sleeping, you… your eyebrows were always pressed together, y'know? Like you couldn't get peace even when you slept." A beat, "I… God, y/n. I hope you've found some fucking peace."

She wants to hate you. She really does. She wants to lash out and tell your bones how selfish you were—but she can't. No matter how hard she tries, how hard she tries to push anger to the surface, you were never someone she could hate, not even when you stole her laces before Regionals last year and made her faceplant in front of the entire goddamn school.

No, you were always the best of them.

I could tell your eyes Looked beneath the blue

It's well past nightfall when Travis and Gen find her.

Nat sits next to your body, face devoid of all and any emotion, fingers plagued blue and curled in on themselves with superficial frostbite. Her body's stopped shivering—given up on the core instinct to keep warm.

Her thousand-yard stare cuts through Travis as he kneels before her, his voice falling on deaf ears.

All she can see is you.

All she can hear is you.

All she can feel is you.

The world feels as though it's been submerged in water as she's helped to her feet and back to the cabin.

It isn't until Gen mentions something about coming back to retrieve your body in the daylight that Nat flinches.

"No—" Nat immediately rasps out, her senses returning to her as she struggles out of Travis's grasp. "N-no. We won't… we aren't gonna… not like we did Jackie. We won't. I won't let us. I won't. I won't. I won't. I w—" She chokes on her own words, falling back down to her knees adjacent your corpse. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"

Travis says something. A reassurance. An empty string of syllables that don’t matter.

She doesn't hear it. His words bleed into a static sound that floods her senses and threatens to consume her whole, almost like the darkness that had consumed you.

The walk back to the cabin is a blur. Someone boils snow for a bath. Nat doesn't speak. Doesn't look up. She lets them peel off her coat, strip her down, and lower her in like a doll.

The water stings. She doesn't flinch.

She doesn't even feel it.

Her knees ache against the floor, but she doesn't budge from her position.

The plane is cold. Not wilderness cold—ghost cold. The kind of chill that sinks deeper than skin and doesn't go away, no matter how many layers you wear or how many nights pass.

Nat stares at the bag holding your bones—at you. Her fingers twitch again. She wants to open it. Wants to unzip it, lay you out, see you—but she's afraid of what won't be there. The parts of you that were taken, that they took, that she took.

Her throat tightens. She exhales sharply through her nose.

"'member what you said that one night?" she murmurs. "The night the plane crashed? That if you died out here, you wanted to go out with a bang?"

A weak laugh huffs out of her. Her hand moves slowly, trembling against her will, as it comes to rest over the bag.

"Well. I'm sorry it wasn't as exciting as you had hoped." A pause. "Y'did get eaten though, which you'd argue is pretty cool, but…" The laugh she attempts doesn't make it past an attempt—the sound coming out far more broken and frail than intended. "It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not you."

I woke underneath the trees For the first time

"Here," Shauna says quietly, holding out a pale heart with areas of purplish mottling to Nat, "you should be the one to do it."Nat's lip trembles as she delicately takes the heart—your heart—from Shauna's hand, cradling it like it might still beat. It's still cold from being in the elements for so long, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from the fireplace.

She debates speaking for a long moment, but decides that words wouldn't mean much right now, not in front of a crowd of people you had grown a strong distaste for in the previous months.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she takes a bite out of your right ventricle, the taste of congealed blood and half-frozen viscera coats her tongue, metallic and wrong.

She nearly gags.

So, she swallows hard. Forces it down. As quickly as it entered her mouth, it leaves, sliding past the lump in her throat like it might claw its way back up.

Nat stares at the half-eaten heart in her hands, slick and heavy with blood that no longer belongs to anyone.

She can't do it.

Not all of it.

With a sudden, shaky breath, she stands and crosses to the fire.

"You don't deserve this," she mutters—not to you, but to them.

And before anyone can stop her, she tosses the heart into the flames.

It hisses as it hits the heat, blood bubbling on contact. The smell is awful, but Nat doesn't flinch. She watches it burn until it's blackened and cracked, until nothing that once loved or was loved remains.

Only then does she turn her back to the fire and let the rest of them have their feast.

"I'm sorry, y/n," are the last words she speaks to you as she takes off the necklace that dangles around her neck—a rifle bullet on a long silver chain—and places it into the bag where your bones rest, and will remain until the ground thaws.

Nat doesn't look back as she leaves the plane, but she never forgets how your inanimate body looked when she found you there—your once bright eyes dimmed and devoid of life, your once beautiful laugh snuffed beneath the oppressive weight of the winter snow.

No, Natalie never forgets you, just like she never forgives herself.

a/n: we take a break from our regularly scheduled angsty-smut for just angst. anyways, back to you, angsty-smut! (translation: 'light up floor' next)

#only i would be writing smut then immediately decide to write something like this. only me #natalie scatorccio #nat scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #nat scatorccio x reader #nat scatorccio x you #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #ladles (fics/blurbs)#butter knives (sfw)#technically it's sfw? but idk i would let my kids read this or w/e #from the cutlery drawer #q

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wonryllis · 1 year ago

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☆ ᵎᵎ ENHYPEN COMING HOME TO FIND YOU ASLEEP.

╰ 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇.

𝒏o𝓉ℯs. enhypen in whipped era 𖥔 ݁ fluff, soft soft softtt LIB? fem!reader word count `719 PLS REBLOG!!

𝗹𝗲𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴 he knows you stay up late waiting for him, this time he finds your figure laid against the soft cushion in a weirdly adorable position. heeseung quietly tiptoes to have a closer look, taking his time to admire your sleeping face. oh he so wishes to keep coming home to you like this. he'd sit beside you and tell you things he could never have said to your face, his deepest thoughts. apologizing for things he could've done better and thanking you for being with him and loving him.

i think i will love you forever, i want to.

𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗷𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘀𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴 he is so used to it, at least he thinks he's so used to it but everytime he comes home to find you passed out on the couch, or on the carpet slightly lolling to the side the book in your hands almost falling off, he feels the same butterflies he did when it first happened. if you aren't in your pajamas already, best believe he'll change you himself, not wanting to disturb your sleep and put you to bed like magic fairy. he'll join you in later, and if you accidentally stir awake he'll put you back to sleep.

shh, go back to sleep love, i'm right here.

𝘀𝗶𝗺 𝗷𝗮𝗲𝘆𝘂𝗻 this guy has a field trip range of emotions upon seeing you asleep after a long day of work. he feels this fuzzy and warm feeling watching the one he loves sleep so peacefully, and on the other hand he's so excited to just join you. if you're on the couch he'll squeeze himself in whatever space he finds and cuddle you into the morning and if you're on the bed, he'll leech onto you leaving more than half the mattress empty while he snuggles into his baby on your side of the bed.

mmm, love having you in my arms like this

𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝘀𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗻 outwardly he's so nonchalant at first, just coming up to your passed out figure and picking you up to get you to the bed, a smile on the tip of his lips. however the moment you nuzzle into him in a soft whine, he's so putty feeling his heart skip beats, his breath staggering like boy is damn smitten. placing you on the bed he'll quietly pull the covers on, a sneaky kiss on the lips and then leave the room to calm himself down, maybe even scream silently a little with the way you get him nervous over nothing.

fuck, she's so damn adorable i'll melt.

��𝗶𝗺 𝘀𝗲𝗼𝗻𝘄𝗼𝗼 he'll text you to ask if you're awake and if you don't respond he knows you're out. he'd definitely softly speak about his day even though you're not listening. complimenting you as he always does of how pretty you manage to look all the time. will sing you a bunch of songs if you wake up, holding you close and tracing over your features, smiling so wide all the tiredness of the day washes away. also makes sure to wake up before you to again admire your sleeping face.

you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.

𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗷𝘂𝗻𝗴𝘄𝗼𝗻 asleep or not, jungwon is always careful when he walks through the door, softly opening and closing it. tiptoeing inside as quietly as he possibly can, and when he spots you asleep on the couch he'll put everything down to bring you to bed. carrying you like the most precious thing, laying you on the mattress and immediately leaning over to leave kisses all over. if you stir awake he's getting in and cuddling you back to sleep, hands caressing your head gently.

it's just me baby, you looked so cute couldn't help it.

𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗺𝘂𝗿𝗮 𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗶 will absolutely not switch on anything or make any sound and obviously will carry you to bed if you're passed out somewhere else. he'll kinda avoid looking at your face, until he cannot help it and god help him because once he does he'll be glued, eyes staring non stop. he can't believe someone so beautiful loves him, and all these complicated emotions come at once. he's overwhelmed and so whipped, he'd play around with your hair deep in these thoughts until sleep comes to him too.

how did i manage to have someone like you?

taglist ( open. ) @kangseulgithegreat @s00buwu @luvyev @pockyyasii @nctislifue @ashtxrie @miniature-tragedy @jayujus @brachives @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly @eeunoia @nxzz-skz

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captain-huggy-bear · 2 months ago

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I was watching the video where the Utah team were asked their Karaoke song, Clayton's being Wagon Wheel. Then I listened to it and then I realised that I think he'd call you mama when you're pregnant (tbh I think he'd sometimes call you it even if you're not pregnant or a mum) Also I'm less than 200 away from 1000, should I do a celebration? Maybe prompt lists or something idk? Let me know what you think baring in mind it'll probably take me 500 years to write everything anyway lol Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You feel like a very sick, very achy whale. That's really the only way to explain how being 7 months pregnant felt. You were dealing with feeling sick every day, baby deciding she wanted to twist and turn at all hours and kick you at every opportunity. She was heavy as well causing your back to ache, your ankles to swell and your entire body to hurt.

You're just trying to grab something to eat but have to stop halfway to the kitchen, hands pressing to your back, leaning in such away that your bump presses out further. You're starting to get fed up with this pregnancy stuff and Clay hates watching you feel so wrong in your skin every day...even as he thinks you look the most beautiful you ever have, carrying his baby.

Hands are sliding over your lower back, long sturdy fingers pressing into the tense muscle there as Clay presses his chin to your shoulder, having spotted your discomfort a mile off. He knows this pregnancy is being rough on you and he's trying his best to be attentive, supportive even when he's away on a roadie.

"How you doin', mama?" Even as you're annoyed at him for getting you pregnant and putting you in this position, you can't help but relax into him, shoulders pressing back against his chest as his hands move around to your belly, rubbing across the taut fabric of your t-shirt there. The moment you found out you were pregnant Clay had started calling you mama more than he called you baby, a shift that melted you ever single time. Even when you were irrationally and hormonally angry at him.

"Everything hurts and your baby is making me sick." You moan at him, huffing and annoyed even as your body relaxes into him, putting your weight back on him. He just huffs out a laugh at you, knowing you're not actually upset with him and that even if you were he has no right to be upset about that. Not when you're dealing with all the aches and pains of giving him a baby.

"My baby? Mama, you cannot blame me entirely for her actions." He says this even as she kicks you under his palms as if she knows exactly where his hands are and aims for them. You're almost certain she'd be a penalty box baby.

"You put me in this position."

"I know...I know." He hushes you, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder before nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He feels bad on some level for how uncomfortable you are, even as he's happy you're having his baby, "What's hurting the most right now?"

"My back, your baby is a fucking giant. Big ass head." It's ridiculous you think, that he's only 5ft 10 and yet his baby feels like a giant. You can't even begin to contemplate how large she'd be if he'd been someone like Michael...it makes you shudder in dread. God help his future partner if she decides to have a baby with him.

"C'mere, mama." He's pulling you back against him even as you start to resist his movements, trying to pull away from him unsure what he's about to do and overly suspicious of his motives. You don't want any of his hairbrained schemes right now, you're too uncomfortable for it.

"Clay..?"

"Come here. Trust me, baby." You stop resisting until he's pressed flat against your back, hands sliding over your bump and underneath with a softness, a gentleness that always surprises you. For a man who can shoot a puck at 90mph he can be astoundingly gentle.

It's almost a shock, the good kind, how Clay's large hands cup your belly from underneath and lift until he's taking the brunt of the 10lbs you're certain your baby is going to end up being.

"Oh..." You sigh back into him, relaxing so completely that you're almost jelly. Head leaning back onto his shoulder, eyes closing. It's instant relief from some of the back pain and the aches, all of that weight lifted from you by his hands so easily because to him the weight is nothing, but then he's not carrying it all day, every day.

"That feel better, mama?" He mumbles it against your temple, pressing intermittent kisses there as he watches the way you ease into him, the smile of relief on your face. You're his baby too, his first baby, and you're important, as important if not more than his baby baby. Taking some of the pressure off you, helping you feel good? That's more important than anything else.

"Mmmmm...yeah, much better." You're so soft against him, pliable, boneless. Clay feels a certain sort of pride at the fact he's able to help like this, that he can take some of that pain and pressure away even for a few minutes.

"I'm sorry she's being mean to you..." God, he can't wait to meet her, but he also hopes she's not as difficult once she's here. Terrified she's going to be a hellion that has him pulling his hair out from stress. All she's done is spend the pregnancy kicking you, keeping you awake at night and making you vomit while making you crave food you hate and be unable to stomach foods you love. If anyone should get an award for patience and resilience it's you.

"She's going to be a handful...but I love her anyway." You smile as he kisses your temple again, firm enough you can feel it, but not too rough that it'll jar you.

"You're going to be the best mama, baby."

"I hope so..." You mumble as he eases your belly back down. Pulling you to lay on the couch with your swollen ankles in his lap. Fingers massaging against the swollen skin as you lean back into the couch pillows.

"You worried?" He watches you, assessing you as he works his fingers into the arch of your heel, pressing at tense little spots. You're biting your lip worriedly as you watch him, gone into that spot in your head you go to sometimes, even as your hand strokes across your belly in an attempt to sooth the baby who's started kicking you again.

"Mmm, just get scared sometimes that she might hate me," There's this part of you that's terrified you won't bond with your baby, that no matter how hard you try she won't love you back...or worse that you'll mess up, do something that makes her hate you.

Clay's hand smooths up your calf to the back of your knee, his eyes impossibly soft as he looks at you. A gentle reassuring smile pulling at his lips.

"Not possible, mama. Promise she's going to love you as much as I do."

And you believe him. In that moment, it's hard to imagine that Clayton's wrong. He knows you better than anyone else, the only other person who knows your baby almost as well as you do. Knows what makes her kick, how best to get her to settle so you can sleep and what foods stop her making you vomit. In that moment you can't imagine that he could possible be wrong and it makes you want to cry because all you want is to be a good mum to your baby, to be a good partner to Clay, to have it all work out.

"...thank you."

"Anytime, mama."

#huggy bear writes #clayton keller x reader #clayton keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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shinysobi · 2 months ago

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sleepless in busan

he's been running his whole life, and hadn't realized how tired he was.

well, this was supposed to be a collaboration that unfortunately fell through, but the image of diner owner jihoon was so stuck in my mind it refused to leave, so here we have chapter one of this monstrosity (don't even ask) I've yapped in everyone's dm's about this at this point.

genre: angst, fluff, mentions of drinking and smoking

a/n: to all the people whose inboxes I have invaded: kae @ylangelegy, tiya @gyubakeries, jay @ppyopulii and many, many more, I do hope you enjoy this as much as I did. Special thanks to jay who beta read this in record time, i love u my fellow woozidan

listen to the playlist here

w.c: 9.1k

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | masterlist

Verse one—haemul-tang.

Now, of course, there are methods to running a restaurant. Jihoon is perfectly aware of this, and yet, he has made it a personal mission to flout each and every rule of that (bar the safety precautions, because well, he isn’t an asshole, never mind what Jeonghan says. Jeonghan has to say an awful lot, apparently, because, and this is true, he’s been telling Jihoon about the apparent health and safety violations of his diner. Jihoon knows this is a false and untrue accusation, because the health department has been to visit once in the six months that Jihoon has been running his diner, and it has all been up to code. Likely, Jeonghan was trying to get underneath his skin by feeding him lies, and Jihoon cannot put it past Jeonghan simply lying to get ahead in the game. And unfortunately for him, Jihoon really cannot get angry with the man, because he simply has his best interests at heart, but he will use his God-given, natural right, to get pissed off and complain. A tiny little thing like friendship is not going to stand in the way of him complaining about Jeonghan, no matter what other people might say about him. He’s a grown adult now. And grown adults can complain about their best friends. And Jeonghan is the kind of person who would lie to get under Jihoon’s skin. Seeing him squirm is like a shot of dopamine for him.

“It doesn’t matter how good the food is, or if you’re being considered for an Orange Ribbon, Jihoon,” the offensive man in question is sitting at the bar at the moment, staring at Jihoon, infuriatingly attractive, “the state of this place is disgusting. This is probably the fourth time I’ve come to see you this week, and already it's filthy. Do yourself a favour and shut this down before you get inspected for a health code violation.”

Jihoon says nothing. Saying nothing in response is the easiest way to rile Jeonghan up, because after half a moment’s silence, he pipes up again, “you clearly hate running this place. Take my advice, and go back to your old job. You know, the one that you used to have, since you left everything and began a diner, of all things.”

Jihoon scoffs, rolls his eyes, and says, “what do you want me to go back to? Being a pianist? Being a performer? Or being a producer for the company? Because as far as I can recall, I am still doing that, just not in person. I still make songs. I’ve just stopped going into the spotlight.”

“Exactly. Do you know how much we spent trying to find you? You just dropped off of the face of the earth, without a single explanation as to where you were going or what you were going to do afterwards. People thought you had died, you know.”

“My parents knew where I was.” It is strange, how easily he slips back into being a petulant teenager in front of Jeonghan, who, when Jihoon had first met him, was a rather petulant teenager himself, but manages to not sulk too much, lest Jeonghan make fun of him, “and I was doing fine. I just didn’t want to deal with everything.”

“Your parents can keep a secret; I’ll give them that.” Jeonghan grouses, “I thought they were professional spies at some point, because nothing I said could make them open their mouths about why their only son dropped off the face of the earth after his contract—a very alluring contract that I fought with the company executives to secure for him—expired, and why he had not been picking up the calls of his friends.”

Jihoon has the self-awareness to look bashful. He was an asshole to all of them, he knows. Jeonghan was the one who was the most affected, but all the others—Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao—he’s been a jerk to all of them, dropping off of the radar because he just couldn’t deal with the fame and what came with it. “I’m sorry about that.”

“What were you even doing for all those years?”

“I was doing things. Other things, not producing or playing the piano in front of a crowd.” Jihoon shrugs, “ran away to Paris. I Learned how to cook. Came back to Busan, opened this diner.”

“Man,” Jeonghan runs a hand over his face, “you used to love performing. And then you leave without a word, for years, and then I find you running a diner in the middle of Busan. What really is going on here, Jihoon?”

Jihoon sighs, “not today. Nothing I can tell you today, I’m afraid.”

Jeonghan nods, “fair enough, but you have got to come back to the industry.”

“I’m still writing songs!” he protests, “is that not enough? I said I’d still be producing, and I am making songs for the company. Is writing consecutive hits not good enough for you?”

“It sounds like it’s not good enough for you, man,” Jeonghan says, finishing his food and placing a ten-thousand-won bill on the bar, “keep the change. And for god’s sake, fire Soonyoung. Or at least, make him stop coming here. He’s going to ruin his public image if he starts serving people in your diner. Look at him, he’s putting food in front of people wearing a tiger-print apron.”

“He works without pay,” Jihoon replies, “there’s really nothing I can do about a person who comes in and volunteers their time. Also, the only way he said he was going to serve people was if he was allowed to wear the tiger print apron.”

Jeonghan lets out a long-suffering sigh, “at least make him go home at a normal time. It’s good that he’s spending his break away from people, but serving drinks and food in a diner owned by Lee Jihoon is not really the answer.”

And with that, Jeonghan is gone, and Jihoon is left alone, with three other people in the restaurant, two of them being served by an overenthusiastic Soonyoung wearing a striped apron. He really had meant to let everyone know about his whereabouts, really. Even after all those years of being at the company, being a pianist, then writing and producing songs, even after all of that took a toll on him, he had meant to let the people closest to him know.

But he hadn’t, and his relationships had suffered as a result.

“Jihoon,” Soonyoung drifts into his field of vision, an orange-striped monstrosity, “shouldn’t you be closing up shop? Last call should have been half an hour ago.”

“Hm,” he nods, “I’ll close up shop. You can go ahead, if you want to.”

“You don’t look good,” Soonyoung says, worry laced in his voice, “should I call someone? Jeonghan-hyung? Your mom?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Jihoon can feel the telltale signs of a migraine coming along, but he ignores it in favour of being nice to Soonyoung, because Soonyoung will definitely go and tell Jeonghan if Jihoon is not well, and he doesn’t think he can handle the emotional turmoil of dealing with Jeonghan on two consecutive days, “just go, I’ll clean and close up.”

“You already cleaned,” the other man points out, “you were cleaning before Jeonghan-hyung came by, and I finished the rest of it for you. You just need to wash the dishes from the last two customers and take out the trash, and you’ll be done.”

Jihoon stares at him, a newfound appreciation for Soonyoung colouring his vision. Yeah, screw what Jeonghan has to say about him working here, he’s going to let him work. If he likes it, let him do it. as long as it doesn’t interfere with his work and rest.

When he takes out the trash, Soonyoung having gone home earlier, sits in front of the diner, still wearing his work clothes, and takes out a cigarette. He really shouldn’t be smoking, but here he is, trying to get rid of a habit he had thought he’d left behind. So many people in his life—his parents, the record label execs, Jeonghan, Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao, Soonyoung, now, and he’s managed to let down at least eighty percent of them, soundly. What was he thinking, opening up a homestyle diner in the middle of Busan? He knows why Soonyoung comes out here to work with him, even if his own house is in Namyangju. He’s aware of why Jeonghan has been running around to get him to come back to Seoul. But unfortunately for Jihoon, he enjoys the smell of the sea a bit too much. Likes Busan because he can wake up and go for a walk and have breakfast with his parents, come back to open the restaurant, and live a life that is enviable, perhaps. Hard, but enviable.

He presses the code to lock the doors, then pulls the shutters down. Time to clock out.

—

“No, Seungkwan, I refuse to go to your home for the holidays,” I tell the man sitting in front of me at the café, “I barely know your parents! Why would they want to host me for the holidays!”

“They love you already, noona,” the man wheedles, fully aware of the power of a handsome face, “please, they haven’t ever met a writer in real life.”

“I’m not a zoo animal to be paraded, Kwan. Besides, I have my own, very loving family, to get back to for the holidays.”

“But you won the Daesan literary award!” Seungkwan groans, “please, noona, it would mean so much to my parents if you came to visit them.”

Unfortunately, I’ve never really been able to say no to him, which is a weakness of mine that he exploits on the daily. Besides, who really contributed to the award? Was it me, who wrote the story, or was it Seungkwan, who found my manuscript languishing in a pile of rejected scripts and fought for it until it was published? I thanked him in my speech after I won, but it doesn’t seem enough.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll go on the day after New Year. I can get a ferry or something.” Ugh. Never mind the fact that Seungkwan has something else brewing (he always has) in that mind of his, travelling the day after New Year, when all the roads are bound to be filled to the brim with people arguing, yelling, and trying to make their way to their own families, is not exactly my idea of heaven.

But, on the other hand, Seungkwan was my best (haters would say my only) friend, and I would actually enjoy his company, so I make a face, but make a purchase for a ticket to Jeju either way. I can always bully him into giving me a ride to his house after I land. I will have to make my excuses to slip away from my home, but I think my parents would be happier if I spent at least part of the holiday at a friend’s place rather than at theirs. It would stop the questions of ‘when are you getting married’, that’s for one.

I make a face at the amount of money I was being charged for single two-way ticket to Jeju, and I show the screen to Seungkwan, who pulls a frown of his own, “I’m taking that out of your pay check, Boo Seungkwan.”

“You don’t even pay me,” he counters, “and don’t pull that face. We all know why you’re even saying yes to this. You just don’t want to deal with your parents asking you when you’re going to get married.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I’ve known you for three years, so it’s kind of obvious to me,” he preens, “are they still on your case about that?”

“They mean well,” I take a sip of the too-sweet boba tea, “but after a point, they get overbearing. Even they are aware of it, which makes me think that they’re just doing it on purpose.”

“And they still don’t know that you’re a writer?” Seungkwan has this look on his face, the one that I’ve dubbed ‘Incredulous Seungkwan Face’ where he has heard a piece of information so outrageous it cannot possibly be true, but here it is, in his face, as he tries to process it, “come on, at least tell them that you won an award! At least then they’ll stop asking you about when you are going to get a proper position at your job, and I don’t have to lie every time they ask me about it.”

“They ask you about it?” I groan, “I thought I told them not to bother you about anything, but they ask you about it.”

“They worry about you, that’s why,” Seungkwan sips on his coffee, “of all the writers I’ve met, you are the one who’s the most secretive, despite being one of the most famous.”

“You’ve been talking to more writers?” I gasp for dramatic effect, “cannot believe you are betraying me.”

Seungkwan gives me an unimpressed look, “As opposed to who is betraying you?”

I twiddle my thumbs. “You know, who else.”

“Never mind that,” Seungkwan sighs, “at least tell me that you’re coming to Jeju for New Year’s. I’ve already told my parents about you, so you know, no pressure.’

“Yeah, no pressure, you dumb shit,” I grumble, “I’m going to be terrified the whole time.”

Seungkwan laughs, before standing up to leave, and finally, I am all alone in the shop, with only my brain for company. Daesan Literary Prize. Until the previous month, I had no idea it was even a real thing, and when Seungkwan had called me up to deliver the news of my winning, I thought it was a prank call delivered to the publishing house. But it wasn’t, and now I am—well, what am I? a writer? An accomplished one? Someone who makes a fair bit of living from her craft?

Doubtful.

“Why are you based in Busan?” Seungkwan had asked me, when we met for the first time, an open question, that I had failed to answer, just stammered my way through a bunch of excuses that didn’t make sense to either of us, but at least he had accepted it, had not pressed further, had not asked the question, why do you avoid Seoul?

The boba shop is on the edge of the wharf, and I make my way to the sea, salty air whipping onto my face, realising, after a long time, ah, I miss my mom. It’s in times like these that I miss the days of my youth, when all I had were dreams clogging my senses, when I thought about nothing but becoming famous, being known for my writing. And when I’ve finally managed to achieve even a little bit of that goal, I hid away in the middle of a city where no one knew my name, or at least, even if they did, had the sense to look the other way. Seungkwan doesn’t press, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t go beyond his limits. Even if he could, he never once asked me about the reason behind leaving.

My phone rings, “Hello?”

The familiar voice of my sister floats in through the speaker, “are you okay?”

Are you okay? There is an answer to this, but I’m not sure if I should be telling anyone about it, really, are you okay? Who am I to say I’m not, beg for love and attention and all the other things that come with the experience of being loved and cared for, to be an important person in anyone’s life?

“I’m fine,” I reply, kicking away a stray pebble, “just walking on the beach. It’s a Sunday.”

“You love that damn beach too much,” my sister grumbles, “even ran away from the city you were born and raised in, just to see the beach. Have you had your fill of it now? Aren’t you sick of seeing the same thing over and over again?”

“The sea changes every day, you know,” I laugh, “I come here every day to find a different person waiting for me, the same way that you have your family, I have the beach for myself.”

“I wish you would at least think about it, you know,” my sister sighs on the other end, “I just feel as though you’ve been running for years.”

“One has to stop at some point, right?” I laugh, “I’m fine, eonnie. I like it here, actually. The sea is—it’s comforting.”

“Do you want me to tell you about New Years?” she asks, still cautious, “or do you want to skip it this year?”

“I’ll come, don’t worry. Mom and dad will miss me if I didn’t show up at least once,” I laugh, “hey, at least we get mandatory leave those four days.”

“I thought you would have other plans.”

“Seungkwan invited me to go to Jeju for the New Years, so I’ll probably do that the day after New Years,” I say, “I don’t know, might cancel that. Would like to stay with my parents for the holiday, you know?”

“Mom and dad would be overjoyed if you went to a friend’s house for New Years,” she replies, “ah fuck, the kids are acting up again. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bye.” She hangs up, and I stand there, in the middle of the beach, the sea a comfortable distance away from me, and wait a while.

I hate Seoul. Hate the bustle of it, hate how people move quicker than they need to, but who knows? Maybe they do need to move that quick, maybe they all have places to be, things to do, more important than the life of a twenty-something who does not know exactly where her dreams began and where her reality ended.

Most importantly, I hate how I miss it.

In the dying light of the sun, I kick away pebbles, hoping to find a different outcome for all this want inside of me, and come up with nothing.

—

Jihoon is scared. He’d been staring at the work computer in his room for an hour the past night, and all he ended up realising was wow, I’m fucked. He’s staring at the amount of drafts he has in his computer, titled neatly, with the day and time of composition (as if that really mattered, but Jihoon was a stickler) and really, he can’t sustain himself with recycled beats and old compositions he’d made in the earlier days of his contract with the company. He’s been unable to really make anything anymore, has essentially kept staring at the screen, unable to even make a single tune. It’s a far cry from the Woozi of his previous years, who had a new song to be presented for scrutiny at the company meetings every single week. Jeonghan might take offence, but he is not the one who has to craft songs, only has to present them, and he can wait a few more days.

Jihoon knows he’s good at making songs, he’s been called a genius far too many times for the term to not go to his head. Three years ago, just before his contract ended, he was awarded Producer of the Year and Songwriter of the Year, a distinction reserved for three people before him. He'd written around thirty songs that year, more than anyone else, and had his hands in the production process for at least twenty more. Writing songs came easy to him then, as easy as breathing. He could sit with a draft in the morning and be done by lunchtime.

And then breathing became difficult, so all he could do was clutch his chest and run.

Jihoon shakes his head, standing at the doorway to his apartment building, he has to get groceries for the restaurant today; the produce will be coming in a bit later than usual. Which means delays in the prep, which means delays in getting orders out. It’s funny, how he’s become accustomed to thinking like a restaurant owner, even though he had no idea about this stuff when he first started out, washing dishes in the back of a Parisian bistro, telling the whole world to fuck off just because he could. All of that was the bravado of a twenty-year old, someone who had enormous power thrust into their hands before they even realised the gravitas of it, and most of the time, people watch on in a sick sense of pleasure, hoping to see the other person drown.

And well, he was a good swimmer, but swimmers drowned too.

By the time he ends up finishing his prep for the day, there is only about ten minutes left for the lunch regulars to begin walking in, and he makes a face, realising, not for the first time, that running a restaurant, even if it’s a homey little diner on the edge of the Busan wharf, is a lot of work.

Soonyoung walks in halfway through the afternoon, rubbing his eyes as if he’s just woken up. He picks out his designated apron from the rack, and Jihoon averts his eyes because he cannot bring himself to be the one to tell him that the tiger-print is an atrocious one. In many ways, he’s grateful to Soonyoung, who works at the diner without asking for payment, just grateful to be able to hide away from the reporters in Seoul that seem to constantly be on his ass for something or the other. Soonyoung had entered the company when they were at the last stages of The Seventeen Project, something that was being touted as the 'next big thing' in k-pop since BTS. Jihoon was also dabbling in producing, sick and tired of the failure and the scrutiny. He had initially felt sad for Soonyoung, given how he was walking into a company that was on its dying breaths, desperate to try anything to get by. They all knew, the HR knew, the producers knew, hell, even the trainees knew. Production had seemed like a safer alternative at that time, and he was eager to do anything for a paycheck. Turns out, Soonyoung, or Hoshi, as he called himself, was the goose that laid golden eggs. Or was it Jihoon who was the goose? Either way, Hoshi’s popularity meant more work for Jihoon, more money for the company to be poured into the other struggling groups. When one succeeds, everyone gets a piece of the pie. Years later, and he was begging for his contract to end.

The shift is a slow one, meaning he has more time to think about his impending doom, where he is hunted down the sands of the beach by a group of company executives, headed by Jeonghan, who, inexplicably, has a contract termination notice for his diner in his hands. Jihoon knows it’s an unrealistic dream, but it does not keep it from shuddering in fear whenever his mind conjures up that image.

“One seafood stew,” Soonyoung sets down a ticket in front of him, jerking out of his thoughts, “should I say last call?”

Jihoon checks his wristwatch, already past midnight. He wants to keep the diner open a while more, but he still has to go home and decide on what to send Jeonghan for the upcoming deadline, something that he has been avoiding to the point that Jeonghan had to make the damn trip to tell him to fix his mistakes. He has to do something, or the tentative bit of goodwill that he has, will all go down the drain. At least he can talk to the others over the phone every once in a while, he won’t be able to do that either anymore.

“Last call,” he shouts over the counter, and the customers begin to stand up and leave, “Soonyoung, clean as much as you can, then leave the rest to me.”

“Ah, well, you see,” Soonyoung says, half-apologetic, because Jihoon knows how much he loves performing, “I’m going back to Namyangju tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Your vacation finished early?” he asks, keeping it light, “you stayed back longer this time.”

“Ah, you know, vacation is never really a vacation with these people,” Soonyoung laughs, “but, I’ll still be in touch, if you want me to.”

“Of course I want to remain in touch,” Jihoon laughs, “drive safe on the road back home, huh?”

“Sure, sure,” Soonyoung walks out of the door, “keep the apron for me, would you?”

“Fuck no.”

Soonyoung leaves, and Jihoon is alone, back in a void of his own making. He could just clean up before leaving, but Soonyoung is apparently a much more diligent worker than he had ever thought he would be, because he’s left a spotless kitchen and nothing for Jihoon to take care of, nothing that he can do in order to make himself feel useful. So, he sits at a corner table, looking out onto the beach. He’s been raised in this city for all his life, and yet he’s never really seen the city. He’s never even been on a Blue Line tour, for god’s sake.

With a sigh, he stands up, dusting off a table top. I’ve still got to go back home and work on a draft, useless as it might be. All these responsibilities are probably not good for him; his mother (and his doctor, but he fears his mother more) has warned multiple times against him overdoing it, but Jihoon is part of a group of people who just don’t know when to give up.

The bell rings, and even before he can stand up to look at the person walking into the store after hours, a voice rings out, “are you still open?”

Jihoon turns around, and he truly, really, fully intends to say “no, I’m afraid we are closed for the day,” but instead says, “why do you ask?” because the person in front of him, with the faint scent of cigarette smoke on her, looks straight out of a novel—hair windswept, eyes shining with unshed tears, the heroine of all his dreams brought to life.

If she was a song, she would be—

—

Social media is a disease. I keep repeating that to myself, walking along the wharf. I’m happy now, social media is a disease. I should have never really gone on Facebook after work ended, instead I should have done some overtime work to at least assure myself of remaining in the same company for another year. Unfortunately, I had the bright idea to go online, where by some cruel twist of fate, there they were, happy, married couples who wanted to show themselves off to the world because they can, and they don’t have anyone else to think of when they post happy pictures or whatever.

As I stared at the photos of the gorgeous destination wedding, because of course, who can stop themselves from doing horrible things, all I can think of is university, years ago, perhaps the last time I felt any real sort of happiness.

Don’t contact me ever again.

Hope you heal from whatever you are going through.

The subtext was clear, and try as I might, I could not get anyone to tell me outright, you’re a bitch. You’re a bitter, insecure bitch, and I hope you never find happiness again. Then again, that would not have come off very nice over text.

I lean against a shop, lighting up a cigarette, but the words don’t leave my mind. Hope you heal. How many times does one have to be on the opposing ends of people leaving them to realise that maybe, just maybe, they are the problem themselves? Your ex-partner was a piece of shit and you tolerated all his actions. That makes you even more of a terrible person in my opinion, even if you left him, because at the end of the day, you are a bitter person.

The worst part is I agree with it, all the accusations that are basically condemnations, I agree with them all. I smoke too much, I’m insecure, I don’t have the courage to even talk to anyone properly.

“Ah, fuck,” I mutter, because of course the tears are coming right now, hard and fast when there is no one around to even see it because if no one sees my tears, are they even real? I’m tired, hungry, and overstimulated from the workday, and all I want is a place where I can settle down and think nothing until I get something to eat. Except it’s after midnight, and every shop in a fifty-metre distance from me is wrapping up their workday, closing down shutters and leaving to go back home.

There’s only one shop open on the beach, and I walk towards it, harsh ocean winds ruffling my hair. The bell makes a noise when I step in, announcing my presence to the only other person inside the space, the owner of the store.

“Are you still open?” I ask, and he turns back to look at me, and in the warm yellow glow of the shop light, the man seems like he’s been waiting for me all along, with his kind face, and the soft way he tells me, why do you ask? Instead of just declining outright. Am I overthinking again? Probably.

I take a deep breath. “I just—I saw you were open, and I didn’t feel like having a meal from a convenience store again.”

He laughs at that, “no, no we really don’t, because convenience store meals are the scourge of every working person’s stomach lining, aren’t they?”

I say nothing in response, and he turns back to the kitchen, “We only have the seafood stew left, if that’s okay?”

“Seafood stew is fine, actually,” I take a seat at the bar, staring at the man who’s preparing my meal. A philosophy professor in university had once told me, that one of the ways to get to know anyone, is to look at them from behind once. People have their defences up when you look them in the eye, and they tend to hide themselves away from you. Every time you look them in the eye, they have their ways to deflect, no matter how truthful they are. Everyone has some sort of secret they want to keep, even from themselves. When you look at someone from behind, everything becomes visible—the way their shoulders drop when they walk away from you, the telltale signs that give away their hurt and their anger.

Looking at this man, with his starched white shirt, probably ironed carefully in the morning, preparing a meal for me, I can think of only one thing.

Ah, this man. He looks so lonely.

I’m not unfamiliar with loneliness, given the general trajectory of my life, but this man, he seems to have made the loneliness his own. It’s almost as if he does not want to move away from the dark cloud that hangs around him, as if he’s made himself comfortable in the blanket of his own self, to the point that I don’t think he even registers that he has people around him.

Or maybe, it isn’t your fucking problem, a voice tells me, one that sounds uncannily like my tormentors, because what else could top off this truly delightful moment? If it's not your problem, then don’t go around poking your nose in other people’s business. You’ve done enough; let it go.

The problem is, I’m not good at letting go, and haven't ever been good at it, even as a child. Screaming and crying over old books being given away or sold; keeping record of every moment in my life until it became too much for my diary. Letting go of people was easy; letting go of myself was difficult.

And yet, you’ve managed to run away from your old life, to a place you barely know. Haven’t you been practicing the art of letting go?

“Seafood stew,” the man says, placing a steaming stone bowl in front of me, “here you go.”

“Wait, aren’t you about to close?” I ask, a wave of guilt coming over me suddenly, “ah, shit, I’ll make sure to eat it fast.”

“Unless you want to end up in the ER tonight, take your time,” he replies, “Although, since you asked so nicely, I’ll let you know one thing: you’re also eating my dinner, in case you wanted to, maybe, tip me some more.”

I stare at him, half in disbelief, half in wonder, until he begins to laugh, “don’t worry, the house dinner is secure, so you don’t really have to give up half your food.”

“Half my food? How aren’t you sure I didn’t want to give the whole thing up?”

He laughs again, pointing to the bag sitting beside me, forgotten altogether in the process of sitting down, ordering, and whatever else that entailed, “you’re an office worker, on their way back from working, roughly six hours overtime, and you look like you haven’t had a single bite of food since the morning. Of course you were not going to give up the whole meal, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Hence, half.”

“Hence, half of the meal,” he smiles, “and here I’m being generous.”

I narrow my eyes, but take a spoon and dig in anyway. It’s a seaside diner, I tell myself, there’s no way you’re going to find a Heston Blumenthal hiding in the sands. It’s humble fare, the kind you like.

The first bite, and I want to kick myself for being this wrong. It’s a homely dish, no doubt, but the workmanship behind the dish is exquisite. It's simple, clean, the aftertaste of it not too overpowering. It’s a reminder of Busan, the sea present within the three spices he had used—chilli powder, soy sauce, and soybean paste. It's subtle, briny, and delicious. I used to consider myself a gourmet, because at one point in time, I used to be rich enough to eat at good restaurants (and I enjoyed it), but after this dish has announced its presence on my tongue, I don’t think I can really say that I’ve had anything as good as this.

“You look like you’re enjoying it,” the man says, smiling, “is the stew that good, or are you just starved?”

“Both,” I muse, “it has been a long day.”

“That makes two of us,” he grins, “care to unburden yourself?”

I narrow my eyes. As good as this dish is, I doubt I want to tell my life story to this man, who I have known for all of half an hour. For all I know, he could be a serial killer, using this diner as a front to get intel on his next victim. Also, why the hell would anyone listen to the story of a person who has been abandoned by her entire social circle? How much loss can be contextualised? At what point do I have to come to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, I am the problem?

“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer,” he laughs, and adds on, to my horrified expression, “I realised that maybe asking for your life story without knowing you properly, might be a bad idea.”

“A self-aware man, I see.”

“A rarity these days, no doubt.”

I sigh, choosing not to reply, and busy myself with eating, keenly aware of him observing my every move. It’s awkward, but not entirely unwelcome. Despite watching my fair share of true crime documentaries, I don’t stand up and storm out of the diner, instead I stare right at him, realizing, however belatedly, he has beautiful eyes.

“Unburdening can be hard, I’ve come to realise.” He says, after a pause.

“Why? Is running a diner that hard?” I laugh, “you have the sea right in front of you.”

“The sea is not always benevolent,” he replies, “sometimes, the diner is tiring.”

I hum, “I understand. Adulthood seems to be a series of exhausting events, one after the other, with pockets of small happinesses scattered in the middle.”

“Happiness seems to be hard to come by,” he nods, “I keep forgetting why it was that I opened up a shop here, of all places. It’s on days like these, that I need a violent reminder.”

“Do you want me to shake you by the collar?” He laughs at that, and I feel a sense of pride, because I made him laugh. When was the last time I did that? “Happiness might be difficult to come by on most days, but it's not impossible to find, as you can see.”

“What do you mean?”

I take a deep breath, “I live my days on small, certain happinesses. Moments throughout the day, when I can think to myself, "ah, this existence is not too bad.”

“Moments like?”

I hold out my hand, “when I get my favourite chocolate milk from the store in the morning, I’m happy. When my mother calls me just because she missed me, I’m happy then too. Right now, I’m eating delicious stew. All this makes me happy, in small moments. One day, I think that these small moments of happiness will build up enough for me to live the rest of my life in relative comfort.”

“And this will be enough for you?”

“Well, it all depends on the kind of person you are,” I reply, shrugging, “and the kind of situation one is in; most people try to find as much happiness as they can, even in situations that would have broken their spirits otherwise. It’s just important to, you know, have hope.”

“You sound suspiciously like one of those late 2010’s Keep Calm and Go On posters,” he narrows his eyes, and I snort, “cannot believe I’m on the receiving end of hope-core propaganda.”

“Funny you should mention hope-core,” I wipe my nose with a tissue, “I learnt the meaning of the word from the intern at the office, just this morning, actually.”

“Ah, so you’re fully qualified to give me advice,” he grins, “Soonyoung was the one to explain that to me.”

“He sounds like he’s got his finger on the pulse of today’s youth,” I nod, “or at least, that is what my boss would have said, if he had heard those words. Seeing as he is not here, I will take this opportunity to act as a stand-in.”

He laughs, “Your boss seems great.”

“He’s—surprisingly nice, given how he has to put up with all my tantrums and issues.” I shrug, and he places a glass of tea in front of me, “as an employee, I think I am also obligated to tell you that I have the best boss in the world.”

“You don’t really have to say that,” he says, now wiping down the counter, “Soonyoung probably does not have a single good thing to say about me, but I still keep him employed here. Most bosses don’t really care what kind of people you are, as long as you get the work done.”

I sigh, yeah, there’s the actual problem. I’m behind on work, and everyone else has to pay the price because of me.

It must show on my face, my feelings, because as much as I would like to brag about my poker skills, it’s evident, my discomfort. This man does not prod, instead, offers me another tissue with a smile. He doesn’t push, and I don’t reveal anything. It’s bad manners, really, to be spilling all your secrets to someone you’ve barely met, and within the first half-hour too.

The seafood stew is finished by this point, and I stand up, pushing a ten-thousand won bill towards him, and he fixes me with a look. I shrug, holding it out, “For the haemul-tang,” I say, smiling, “and for listening to my woes.”

“If I took money from the girl who gave me bad millennial advice, I’d be ruining the sanctity of this kitchen,” he says, so seriously I cannot even bring myself to laugh, “come by another time when I have more to offer than the leftovers of the day, and then I’ll take your money. Not before that.”

I make a face, “nothing in life is free, is it? Because now, I have to come back to your diner once more, in order to get my money’s worth.”

“I’ll make sure to serve you my best dish, that day.” he says, and I laugh, because apparently this man doesn’t only make good seafood stew, he also makes other dishes that are, presumably, just as good, “what is it?”

He smiles, conspiratorial, “well, you’ll have to come by again to find out.”

“And if I simply abscond? What if I never come back again?” I stare at him, lit warmly under the lights, soft, yellow, almost ethereal. This was the kind of encounter people fantasised about, wrote about, thought about incessantly. This was what dreams were made of. He’s smiling at me now, because for all the bad things in the world, sometimes, you do get to meet a stranger and even strangely, you both connect on some level that neither of you really understand. If I could, I can stride forward to the bar, and ask him for his number, something I do not really think he will be averse to. I could just do it, establish a connection with someone. And it would not even take a lot of effort, just a conversation. A few lines of words, spoken easily, lightly, as though it did not matter. I could do this. There was no reason I had to remain lonely in this city, when I could have a singular friend to talk to, on nights like these.

Do you even deserve this?

I take a step back, and the back of my knee collides painfully with a chair. I wince, and before he can come to my aid, grab my jacket and bag. “I’ll come by again—” are the only words I manage to say, before opening the door and stumbling out onto the street. God, its fucking cold. If I could just reverse the flow of time, I would never go into that damn restaurant, never would have struck up a conversation with anyone, least of all that man. Someone whose name I don’t even know, someone who (hopefully) will no longer be here when I take a walk on the beach tomorrow.

Before coming to this city, I had not really thought of myself as someone who was cut out to make large decisions. In fact, I thought of myself as perfectly average, right in the middle of the pecking order, someone whose existence brought neither great joy, nor great suffering. The middle ground between two warring sides, and apparently fooling no one. Busan had not even been on the radar before, had not even been in any of the plans I liked to draw up when I was a child, ranging from “World -famous chef” to “President of the United States of America” (yes, I know, that one was a mistake. I wasn’t aware we needed to be old men to be considered for that role). Nowhere in those crudely written crayon drawings had I put the words “Small-time editor for a company in Busan”. I suspect if I put it in one of those sheets, my elementary school teacher would have called my parents, because there was no way that the girl with the best grades in the school would imagine becoming a lowly office worker in a mid-tier city.

Unfortunately, I woke up one morning, four years ago, and decided that Seoul was simply too oppressive for me, and I needed to leave. It was nothing as dramatic as running away in the middle of the night, which was a pivotal point in one of the stories shared by my batchmates on a class outing. Imagine being subjected to a half-drunk woman rambling about the time she was almost robbed at knifepoint, and framing it as a heartwarming story of youthful problems, as something everyone did, at least once in their lives. “How else did you cope with the stress of the exam?” Because apparently, getting into one of the most prestigious universities in the country implies you had to have been in the throes of extreme irrationality as a teenager, or else it does not count. No, my act of leaving was as boring and adultlike as possible, practical and dry, to the point where people did not really understand why I left. That ruse lasted a while, of course, until the rumours began to grow so insistent that no one, not even my mother, that most oblivious of women, made the trip to Busan and insisted on staying with me for a whole week. She didn’t believe them, of course, and asked me only once, on the final day, I’m hearing things about you, you know. Are they correct? I don’t believe them, but I’m asking you again.

They’re not correct, mom, I had said, feeling only slightly sad at lying this blatantly, I do not know what you are talking about, and I know that is not correct.

And my mother had believed me, but a false rumour is only marginally worse than a half-true rumour. And even if they were not true, why did you run? Why did I run, when it meant that everyone could point their fingers at me and say you ran, therefore you are guilty. On what count, we do not know. But you are guilty. And you will remain guilty, for the rest of your life.

I light up another cigarette, walking rapidly away from the diner. The chill in the air has become worse, with the winds sharp enough for me to huddle into my coat as I make the short distance home, five minutes away, but I smoke two cigarettes before I even step foot into the building, and a third is halfway to my mouth as I punch the code in the lock.

You’re gonna die of that one day, man. At least put the cancer sticks away.

I flick the lighter even before I reach for the lights.

—

She smelled strongly of cigarettes, Jihoon noticed, out of everything she did, it was the cigarette smoke that stood out to him, heavy and surprisingly, slightly comforting. She was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger, but—the spicy smell of Dunhill cigarettes, a cross between clove and mint ones, that, that was a scent he was familiar with, years of suffocating boardrooms and producing studios that seemed to be made for the express purpose of forcing him to bend to the will of the executive members. The faint tobacco smell was a reminder of the years he spent in that company, giving up on his youth to chase his dreams. They’d all stopped smoking after a while—him, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Minghao. Or at least, he thought they had. He can’t be sure anymore.

He'd been at his work table for hours in the morning, with little to no work done, but his hands reach for the headphones of their own accord, now, and he starts humming a tune under his breath. It’s a wistful tune, one that would have Jeonghan breathing down his neck, but for once in a while, Jihoon finds himself incapable of caring. Sure, he has to make an upbeat boy group song, and what he’s doing is an indie ballad. But also, he’s been steadily running out of his saved drafts, and Jeonghan would have become aware of it, one day or the other.

He's got only a rudimentary beat done, but it's more work than what he has had in months. It’s a soft progression, reminiscent of the indie songs of the late 80’s, and Jihoon wonders if he should compose a city-pop song for the new female soloist from the company. He could get away with it too, sending over unauthorised songs. Anything will work, as long as the company gets their check.

Jihoon, did you hear? You’ve been nominated for Producer of the Year.

Jihoon, make sure you’re present at the meeting tomorrow.

Jihoon, I’m sorry but you’re not a good fit for the debut team.

Jihoon, make sure you get that track finished by next week.

He leans back into the chair, heaving a sigh. It was destined to crash and burn from the start, wasn’t it? Late nights, strict deadlines, short breaks. Jihoon was on top of the world, but it took mighty little to get him to come crashing down. All of a sudden, he was in a strange city, with no one to talk to him, but more importantly, no one to answer to. How pathetic was my life, if I only managed to taste freedom at the age of twenty-six?

But today, she was there, standing in front of him, and Jihoon had felt, for the first time in a long while, a strange sense of déjà vu—or was the feeling merely camaraderie? That they knew each other, or some level, even if they had never met each other before. She reminded him of a time when he knew nothing but work, cigarette smoke enveloping her like a crowd of despair. And she’d seemed sad, too. Sad enough to not look at him when she spoke.

He'd never managed to get her name; she had come into the diner, into his life, and disappeared with nothing but the faint trace of her habits behind her. He’s never really wanted to know someone this desperately. He could ask someone for help, but his parents would probably ask him to sit back and do nothing at all.

She’d said one thing that had stuck out to him. One day, I think that these small moments of happiness will build up enough for me to live the rest of my life in relative comfort. Even in his moments of despair and depression, he had had support. His parents were there, rallying behind him, keeping their mouths shut about his whereabouts because they knew that Jihoon was not well. He’s one of the lucky ones, the people who had both money and a good family to fall back on, a fact that he says his prayers daily for. All he had to do was tell them I’m not doing well, dad, and they had opened their arms to shield him from the rest of the world while he recuperated. Small amounts of happiness, she’d said. What were his small doses of happiness? To be able to get dinner with his parents every two days? His father, a stoic man who didn’t take off the watch Jihoon had given him—his first present—for a whole month, and his mother, the woman who had been the one to put him in his first piano class, the person who kick started his career, essentially, to be able to be a good son to them, to be a filial person, is that happiness? He thought he was happy, at one point, when he was cranking out a song in two hours and being lauded for it, when he had the high life, going from country to country every year, aspirational discretionary income stored in a platinum account.

Are you doing well? You look—

I’m fine.

He’d repeated the words so many times that he had started believing them. I’m fine. I can do it. This doesn’t bother me; words that made no sense to him, yet happened to come out of his mouth on a daily basis, and what was funnier was that everyone seemed to believe his obvious lies.

He has things to do for the next day; keep track of purchases and go to the market to get things wholesale, banal duties that keep him sane, except Jihoon cannot focus on anything but her right now. You’re going insane, Jeonghan would say, except Jeonghan isn’t here to save his ass right now, is he? It’s just Jihoon at the moment, going slightly insane, apparently.

He’s going to find her tomorrow; more accurately, he has to. She owes him the price of her seafood stew.

—

I wake up before my alarm rings, apparently trained better than a soldier. The morning is crisp, calm, and bright, and as I make myself a coffee before stepping out of the house, I’m hit with a pleasant breeze through one of my many windows. Seungkwan has left me a message in my inbox, sent at three in the morning.

“Remember, you’re supposed to send in your first article by next week. We’ve worked really hard for this serialisation, so don’t miss the deadline, although I’m sure you won’t, because you understand my problems, anyway, remember the deadlines, please.”

I’d almost forgotten about this. The serialisation was a big deal for Seungkwan, since my mainstream success meant the same for him, as my editor. He was the one who worked for the pitch; sending in letters to the chief of the department, begging them to give me a chance. The fact that it was only approved after I’d received an award, doesn’t take anything away from his hard work.

The call to Seungkwan goes through immediately, and his sleep-deprived voice floats through the phone line, “What’s up?”

“What’s the deadline for the serialisation?”

“No mincing words, I see,” he mutters, “next week.”

I sigh. Next week. I’ll have to come up with an idea and a way to execute it, all within a week. “At least tell me if there’s a brief.”

“Brief?” he’s immediately wide awake, “don’t tell me—you haven’t even written anything yet?”

“Besides the point. Just tell me if there’s a brief.”

“That’s the whole point! If you have no idea what to write, man, I don’t know how to say this, but I might lose my job.”

Now it’s my turn to be speechless, because what the fuck does he mean, “What?”

Seungkwan sighs, “look, I really didn’t want to tell you this, but I did bet my job on your column. Sure, the award was a good push, but the Editor still didn’t want to give it to you. Our best writer used to write this column, and now—”

“Now he’s dead,” I reply, “yes, I’m aware, Seungkwan, that my opportunities depend on the timely passing of literary greats.”

“Good god, and now I’m late for work. Just remember you have until next week for the deadline. And write something fun, new age, one that the readers will relate to. We’re already losing subscribers to the magazine as is.”

“Ugh,” I open my mouth to tell him some more, but unfortunately, he’s cut the call, desperate to get to his job on time, and I’m left, standing in the middle of the street, because fuck it’s no longer my writing that’s on the line, it’s Seungkwan’s job as well.

taglist: @facethesunflower @hisnowbie2

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tevaselmundogiraalreves · 4 months ago

Text

BUDDIE FIC RECS PART 2

Okay heres more fics cause ive been reading so so much lately, i cannot and will not be stopped. Heres the first list. I will most prob keep on making lists cause i honestly cannot stop reading. Once again, in no particular order:

Songbird by @colonoscopys - Goes first cause i just finished reading this one. FREAK EDDIE IS MY PASION. I said it already but at one point eddie eats bucks hair. Its awesome! FreakxFreak DumbxDumb

a bleeding sun on a silver screen by @hoediaz EVERYONE ALREADY READ THIS ONE RIGHT? IF NOT WTF ARE YOU EVEN DOING GO! ACTORS AU YOU WILL NE FAMOUS FOREVER.

chess inside my chest by @buick118 - HELLOOOO THIS ONE FIXED SOMETHING INSIDE MY CHEST "heart clipped in the backseat with his headphones already secured over his ears." I NEED AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS WRITING ❤️‍🩹

Two, Three Times in a Row by leslie_knope i honestly have no words for how much i love this fic, i reread it all the time, like ive reread it so much its embarrasing. Some of the best smut ive read.

wanna do a bad thing twice by @coldbam BUCK IS SUCH A FREAK GOD HE IS SUCH A FREAK

(You know what actually there are 2 more fics were buck is the freakiest hes ever been so ill put them right below ⬇️)

slow motion, double vision in rose blush by @saryasy Eddie Diaz. His friend. His Eddie. Has kissed a man. Which is strange because Buck is sure as hell he'd remember kissing Eddie.

Me at Buck: FREAAAAAAAAK

Also special mention to that flashback WOW!

i can tell just what you want (you don't want to be alone) by @tallsinspace Buck loses it every single time this is so awesome, it was so FUN reading INFIDELEDDIE this hiatus 🫶🏽

songs and poems and promises by @lesbianrobin buck summer of disatisfaction turns around thanks to eddie god they are so in love! Also special mention to chim well and maddie lets fucking goooooo

we keep this love in a photograph by @burnthatbridge its just so so freaking beautiful. Buck chooses eddies pics for his dating app after he comes out...

the tortured poets department by @colonoscopys once again the kind of fic that you wanna reread again and again.

"The first time Buck touched him, Eddie blew an ambulance up."

still sitting in a corner i haunt by @cal-daisies-and-briars i just love this one so much, should reread it, trust me its worth it.

we're not in love (but the sex is good) by elless. Idk i loved this one. Buddie are not even friends they just want the benefits as soon as they meet. The transition from that to them actually getting to know each other so naturally and start caring about each other is so beautiful.

in the passenger seat by @livingincolorsagain Evan Buckley was put on God’s green earth to drive Eddie Diaz around.

Just BEAUTIFUL.

tying you to me by @hoediaz ONCE AGAIN PERFECT TYPE OF WRITING. Buddie meet each other after 5x11. SO ORIGINAL GOD.

the soft animal of your body by @hattalove . This is a coda to another fic but can be read on its own. Just beautiful beautiful love making. I think i commented that i felt like they were making love with the words they were saying to each other just sitting on the kitchen table talking.

we could follow the sparks, i’ll drive by @markofalover bucks kink should be people calling him mr. diaz and thinking hes eddies husband.

Wait for me there by @kitkatpancakestack Childhood friends reunite after 8 years. I just really really loved this one. Those flashbacks to the past are so beautiful.

wanna be your endgame by literalmetaphor gotta be honest dont see this happening in canon at all cause the second eddie confesses buck would go down on his knees lets be honest. BUT this was so great! I loved it.

Pivot Tables by rainbowninja167 Does it show that i love reading buddie being so freaky and so kinky. Ill just say this: educational sex. Buck brings on the clipboard. Obsessed with this one.

I Broke What You Gave Me, But You Kept Giving More by rcdwings. memory loss buck cant remember his husband. Listen im not always a fun of memory loss fics but i loved this one i loved the twist.

there's a word for it, I'm sure by @ithilien-writes i have to reread this one asap cause i loved it so so much they are just so in love with each other but cant admit it so they just start having sex about it. And god they love esch other.

i could give you fifty reasons by @marviless buck FLIRTS with eddie cause he just want ti help. God this one was so much fun. I remember laughing out loud. I gotta reread.

beating the horse by @doitbuckley Eddie is moving to Texas. Buck finally figures out what he wants. Perfect read to the end of 8a.

In the Back Seat, Windows Up by @semperama SEX IN THE BACKSIT OF THE TRUCK LETSFUCKINGGOOOOOO

Play Me For Keeps by @semperama this one made me feel so MANY things in less than 1k words I WAS WONDERSTRUCK HONESTLY SMILING FROM EAR TO EAR

would you lie with me and just forget the world by @colonoscopys reread this one recently GODDDDD if you havent just go read it right now!!! Childhood friends to lovers for the win always.

your beauty (not just a mask) by @aashiqeddiediaz these next two fics GOD well i have a thing for mirrors and sex in front of mirrors apparently so... this i top tier for me. This one is the shorter one in front of the bathroom mirror 100/10 no notes.

my mirror (staring back at me) by @aashiqeddiediaz this one is longer. Mirror in the bedroom......... Eddie notices bucks insecurities and well he does smth about it ❤️‍🔥 such a fave of mine. It has everything!!!

Dreaming of a White Christmas by rosebuddiekin . Oh boy!!!... just gonna leave the blurb here cause no words could ever be enough: "Buck accepts a challenge to be edged in his and Eddie's own version of the 12 Days of Christmas and loses his mind a little more with each one." (Btw if someone knows the author please lmk. They put a link to their tumblr on ao3 but it doesnt work for me.)

#buddie #buddie fic recs #buddie fanfic

319 notes · View notes

love-belle · 2 years ago

Text

i'll be loving you for quite some time !!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in which their fall-in-love-again era is them pretending as if they aren't back together and having just a little bit fun with everyone.

for when you know it'll be them till the end. ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

social media au // lando norris x fem!reader

prequel - i bet you think about me ⋆·˚ ༘ *

warnings - language

author's note - hiiii!!!! so sorry for being inactive i have midterms :/// posting rn bc i js couldn't wait!!!! i hope u like this <3 i love u thank u so much for reading <3

tagged @marsdreamworld @luvrrish @ccallistata @eviethetheatrefreak @f1-futurewag-16-3-4-63

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by lewishamilton, carmenmmundt, alex_albon and 689,625 others

yourusername seeing him tonight it's a bad idea right

6,728 comments

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*liked by yourusername*

charles_leclerc again, listen to me and don't go

-> alexandrasaintmleux shut up

-> yourusername fr

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username all the grid is plotting against lando and im here for every second of it

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-> yourusername wow

username if she's seeing lando i will SCREAM

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maxverstappen1 do you not remember what happened the last time?

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-> danielricciardo yes it was

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username HER.

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by carlossainz55, pierregasly, maxverstappen1 and 796,426 others

landonorris feels like a taylor swift song

8,728 comments

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username TOO MUCH TO DISSECT THE LYRICS THE PHOTOS

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charles_leclerc i hope she leaves you. AGAIN.

-> landonorris what have i ever done to you.

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-> maxverstappen1 no offense but the day someone eats your pasta, it's the pearly gates for them

-> landonorris facts

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username LANDO WE NEED ANSWERS

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georgerussell63 you don't even listen to taylor swift

-> landonorris i'm a changed man

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-> landonorris BLOCKED

username i live for the grid violating lando at every possible chance

username this has to be illegal they're playing with my blood pressure

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by lewishamilton, lilymhe, charles_leclerc and 713,729 others

yourusername date night but it's js me telling u about my succulents and my cats

8,137 comments

username DATE NIGHT

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username WHAT ABOUT YOUR CHILDERN (us)

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danielricciardo i wasn't aware of you going on a date - lando (PLEASE UNBLOCK ME)

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*danielricciardo deleted this comment*

-> username OH I SAW THAT OMG

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lewishamilton please unblock him he's about to cry

-> maxverstappen1 tears are welling

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-> pierregasly can confirm

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-> mclaren we can hear the cries

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*liked by yourusername*

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≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo, georgerussell63 and 798,528 others

landonorris she's kinda okay

9,728 comments

username WAR IS OVER

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username SCREECHING WHAT THE FUCKKKKK

username genuinely speechless rn

charles_leclerc "kinda okay" you cried when she blocked you

-> landonorris OH MY GOD STOP

-> username LMFAOAOAOAO

-> username PLEASE OMG

username im here for every second of this

username YESSSHSHSHSHS

username i just fell to my knees at home depot

username OH MY GOD????????

lewishamilton stop being weepy now x

-> landonorris tell her to stop being mean to me x

-> lewishamilton she said nothing wrong x

-> landonorris SHE CALLED ME A MCDONALD'S CLOWN

-> landonorris x

username THE WAY IM GRINNING RN

username drought is over ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

username they got back for ME

lilymhe you break her heart, i'll nail gun yours. got it?

-> landonorris yes ma'am.

-> username lily u will always be famous ❤️

username THEM.

username the biggest sigh of relief js left me

username NAHHH THIS MFS ARE EVIL LIKEE I ALMOST BROKE DOWN BC OF THEM AND THE WHOLE TIME THEY WERE JS SEEING EACH OTHER

-> username bitches (affectionate)

username missed my parents ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️😭😭😭😭😭

username LET'S FUCKING GO

username watch lando get a podium at the next race

-> username oh my man's gonna be motivated

alexandrasaintmleux don't make me pull out the 25272828 messages from u saying how much u love me and those ESSAYS u sent me - y/n

-> landonorris first, DON'T do that

-> landonorris second, why are you using alex no. 2's phone?

-> alexandrasaintmleux first, DON'T tell me what to do

-> alexandrasaintmleux second, i'm blocked???

-> alexandrasaintmleux please don't call me alex no. 2 - alex

-> landonorris first, noted

-> landonorris second, i unblocked you???

-> landonorris sorry alexA force of habit

-> alexandrasaintmleux oh

-> username nah they forced my girl alex to sign off as "alex" on her OWN acc 😭😭😭😭

-> username PLEASE WHAT IS THIS CONVO

-> username the two things i've inferred from above are 1) y/n is not blocked on lando's acc she js chooses to comment from other ppl's phone and refuses to elaborate and 2) lando calls alexandra alex no. 2

-> username this is a WILD place to be

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by kellypiquet, carlossainz55, pierregasly and 799,152 others

yourusername yeah i'll be loving u for quite some time or whatever taylor swift said (❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️)

comments are disabled for this post

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon, danielricciardo and 825,826 others

landonorris happier than ever

11,638 comments

username LANDO NORRIS U ABSOLUTE ASSHOLE

username nah not him using the same caption that he used to shade her

-> username it's almost poetic in a way

username I JUST SCREECHED WHAT THE FUCK

username WAR IS OVER 😭😭😭😭😭😭

username the way i collapsed omg

username THE CAPTION HELP??????

username this is life altering

charles_leclerc not a funny caption

-> landonorris have a sense of humour

-> charles_leclerc i have you as a friend and you're a joke so, i do, in fact, have a sense of humour

-> landonorris you're getting reported for that

-> username LMFAOAOAOAO

-> username PLEASE OMG

username im sooooo here for this

username brb checking if my toaster is waterproof or not

-> username i'll join u!!

username SCREECHING OH MY GOD

username i feel like i've js managed to make two toddlers quit fighting and feel like such a proud parent

-> danielricciardo that's exactly how we feel

-> heidiberger_ so true

-> maxverstappen1 absolutely

-> kellypiquet they were worse than actual kids

-> sebastianvettel they're stubborn

-> scuderiaferrari the amount of times we've had to stop y/n from smashing his car is insane

-> mclaren we had to stay indoors with locked doors scuderiaferrari

-> susie_wolff it was horrible

-> landonorris every single one of you is horrible

-> carmenmmundt fuck u all i hope u step on a lego - y/n

-> landonorris FOR THE LAST TIME YOU'RE NOT BLOCKED yourusername

-> carmenmmundt idc

username life has meaning again

username omg

username THE WEEKND LYRICS OH MY GOD

-> username im folded

username SCREAMING IM SOOOO HAPPY

username they're so ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

username they're actually so taylor swift coded it's INSANE

username brb gonna cry some more

username i used to PRAY for this

danielricciardo could've chosen a different caption - y/n

-> landonorris IT'S THE THOUGH THAT COUNTS

-> danielricciardo terrible thought

-> landonorris i take it back

-> danielricciardo ❤️

danielricciardo this is sweet

-> landonorris thank you

danielricciardo I LOVE YOU

-> landonorris I LOVE YOU MOREEE

danielricciardo bf

-> landonorris gf

-> username what in the world am i witnessing

-> username shh js look away

-> username what in the dando i just witnessed

-> username NOT DANDO OH MY GOD

username sleepover on highway !!!!!!!!!!!!!

username im sooooOOOOooo normal about this (!!!!!!!!!!!)

username ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

danielricciardo nice jacket in the last slide

-> landonorris yeah it'll look even better on your floor

-> danielricciardo mate what the actual fuck

-> landonorris NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

-> landonorris WHERE'S Y/N

-> danielricciardo SHE GAVE ME MY PHONE BACK

-> landonorris OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY

-> heidiberger_ wow

-> yourusername i guess it's js us now heidiberger_

-> heidiberger_ ❤️❤️❤️

-> landonorris NOW YOU CHOOSE TO BE ON YOUR OWN ACCOUNT yourusername???

-> yourusername yes ❤️

-> username this is CRAZY

-> username i genuinely have a whiplash

#f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 imagines #social media au #fake instagram imagines #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris imagines #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris insta au #lando norris fluff #lando norris au #lando norris blurb #lando norris

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thisaccountisagainstmywill · 1 year ago

Text

BG3 Characters Safest Driver Headcanons

I've been thinking about that poll from months ago way too much, so I've pulled this from my drafts. In this essay, I will explain why Boo is the best driver. Astarion: Terrible. Absolutely terrible driver. He is doing his makeup with the visor down, looking at the mirror more than the road. Suspend your disbelief, he's driving in this universe. He can use mirrors. ♥ You have to grab the steering wheel, regularly. Without warning, the man twists around to find his purse in the back seat because he wants a different eyeliner than what he grabbed. You are on aux duty. He hates everything you've picked. 2/10, he lawyered his way into that license Gale: You would think he would be safe, but then you remember that Gale didn't pay attention in boring classes. And how hard could driving really be?? The man knows how to drive perfectly textbook. He also thinks he knows how to do it better than everyone else. He does not adapt well to poor drivers. The roads are full of poor drivers. He is yeling "Zipper!" at the merging traffic. You spend five minutes in the parking lot so he can find just the right song for the trip.

6/10, you will probably not die Halsin: The man drives slow, I'm sorry. He's fuel efficient as you can get with the windows down. He pulls over and stops traffic for ducks crossing the road, no matter what the current road conditions are. He stops to show you the new tree the neighbor got. He is a Yellowstone Park tourist. He wants to show you the world, one traffic-stopping mid-road parking job at a time. There is no music, we are listening to nature today. 4/10, you will be rear-ended with him and not the way most people want Jaheira: I stand by what I said last time: Jaheira reminds me of so many older women I know. She drives like she wants someone to start shit with her. She's so conditioned by having 5 kids fighting in the backseat at all times that every time she's behind the wheel she's having Vietnam-level flashbacks. Her blood is pumping in her ears. There is no road, there is only the red of her vision. She won't start the road rage incident directly, but by god, she will end it. (You tried to ask about music, but the look she gave you when asked killed the question.) 5/10, you make it to your destination intact. But at what cost? Your pants are a different color at the end of the trip than they were at the beginning. Karlach: Karlach is talking with her hands while she drives. She's fiddling with the radio constantly. You've blown four red lights. Three of them were the same red light because she took a wrong turn. She will not use GPS, she's got the vibe of where she's going. She was trying to show you something on her phone at the same time. It cannot wait. It was so good you have to see it right now. The tunes are so loud she hasn't heard the sirens behind her. 4/10, the tunes almost make up for it Lae'zel: You are helping her check her mirror distance before you get in the car. You are buckled in before the car even starts. You are not allowed to touch the light in the car if it is dark out. She was taught that it's illegal to have on at night and she takes that shit seriously. You are on blindspot-watching duty at all times. You're not allowed to have music on the in car, it is a distraction. 7/10, we are efficient, but we are miserable Minsc: Minsc cannot drive. Minsc was meant to drive today, but Minsc got into the wrong seat. We are all relieved. Jaheira trained him wrong on purpose and will kill you if you correct him. 0/10, don't even try. He will survive the accident, you will not. Minthara: Minthara, light of my life. She is gremlin cackling and riding bumpers the whole time. People are pulling off constantly to get away from her. You are white-knuckling in the passenger seat and are too afraid to let go of the bitch-bar. You pray her airbags are up to date because your life has not stopped flashing before your eyes since you got onto the road. We are exclusively listening to The Flight of the Valkyries. 7/10, it is shockingly efficient when no one else is on the road anymore

Shadowheart: I have been in many a 'Shadowhearts' car. The car is more of a problem than she is. She drives the type of car that makes people go, "You live like this?" She drives a manual. She was not trained to drive a manual. Almost every single dash light is on, the ones that aren't had their bulbs die out years ago. We don't know how old that trash is, but it lives here now. She has one of those cassette players that has to hook into your phone to come out the speakers. Good luck finding the right adaptor in the mess. 4/10, girl get your shit together Wyll: Wyll is the best driver, hands down...when he is alone. Like all things in his life, his greatest flaw is being too polite. He turns his whole fucking head to look at you when you talk because that is the polite thing to do. The road is secondary to how important your conversation and companionship are to him. And you can't not talk him! He's asking you genuine questions about your day because he's interested. You get to listen to whatever you want and he's totally down for it even if it's not normally his thing. He'll find something he likes about it. Alone: 100/10, he somehow makes everyone better drivers by just being on the road With you: 5/10, Wyll, please, look at the road. ;_;

Boo: My eyes are closed. It's better this way. We made it there in record time. I don't know how it happened. I don't need to know how it happened. ?/10, it's best if you don't think about it

#bg3 #bg3 shitpost #shitpost headcanons #astarion #gale #bg3 gale #karlach #lae'zel #shadowheart #bg3 shadowheart #wyll #bg3 wyll #halsin #minthara #minsc #minsc and boo #boo #bg3 boo #jaheira

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algae-tm · 11 months ago

Text

KILL BILL P.6

Charles Leclerc x famous singer! reader

Warnings : morally grey reader, toxic exes

Author’s note : There are so many x readers where the reader doesn’t do anything wrong, which I love don’t get me wrong but I wanted to write one where she’s a bit flawed. And obvs I cannot hate her cause she’s just in love and this is lossely (very loosely) based around real life events y’all so I get it! And also I love Alex 😭 I was gunna make her the villain but I literally can’t! So this is going a bit of a diff direction, in terms of ending. - Algae 🌱

•••••

INSTAGRAM

y/bff/n

liked by lewishamilton, oscarpiastri and 678,798 others

y/bff/n : talking about boys over brunch? (tagged : yourusername)

yourusername : feels like I’m 18 again

— user3 : holdup when did y/n and Charles get together?

— user4 : she was 18 and he was 19/20…

— user5 : lmao that’s why he’s got her wrapped round his finger… poor baby hasn’t known any better

— user7 : not you guys acting like Charles groomed her be so serious! they have a 1 and a half year age gap touch grass.

— user9 : you can’t argue with people like this, they’re so chronically online!

— user4 : so how did they meet?

— user19 : google is free!

— user6 : her and Lewis did a fashion campaign when she was 16, and he sort of took her under his wing, cause I think her parents were a bit... I believe she then met Charles when she came to watch a race and watched the f2 race as well.

user1 : y/n telling you about how she’s a slut?

— y/bff/n : only ever having been with 1 man equals slut?

— user1 : going after a man with a girlfriend surely does.

lewishamilton : we love to see it

— y/bff/n : we sure do 😍

— yourusername : not you guys acting like I was dead in a ditch…

— y/bff/n : you were in man purgatory, it’s basically the same thing.

user11 : does Oscar know y/bff/n?

— user12 : No why?

— user11 : cause bros lurking in the comments

— user1 : lmao you think the skank’s gunna go for him next? (user1 has been blocked)

— user13 : @oscarpiatri trust you do not know how to handle @yourusename

— user11: poor baby she’d eat him alive

user13 : oh to be a fly on the wall for the Charles convo

user14 : trust it was hours long

INSTAGRAM

yourusername

liked by lewishamilton, danielricciardo, carlossainz55 and 10,987,843 others

yourusername : boys are awful and grotesque. i had to decompress on an island to get the crazy out of my brain. it’s a good thing mics are portable. Thank you Ephraim! My concierge for finding me a keyboard so I could get you guys this song that entered my brain almost two weeks ago and refused to leave. It’s a good teaser for my album, which is out in TWO days. so without further ado hope y’all like The Weekend!! if you don’t like it I’ll cry.

lewishamilton : oh this gives context to the unhinged messages you sent me at 1 am

— yourusername : I’m an artist, it’s my creative process

— lewishamilton : well this is way more constructive than turning up in Monaco

— user5 : oop- not you clocked by Lewis Hamilton of all people

— user7 : well I’m happy that Lewis doesn’t condone the behaviour of a slag

— user8 : lmao even her friends are getting tired of her

— user9 I think y’all are forgetting that they were together for six years, it was y/n’s first relationship, he dumps her out of the blue gets a new girlfriend within months. I for one would also go a bit crazy and need to be secluded on an island! Too bad I don’t have island money lmao

lewishamilton : I’ve been listening non stop! You truly out did yourself kid 🖤

y/bff/n : thank god you are not in Canada rn

y/bff/n : i was having a heart attack!

y/bff/n : you need to tell me before you travel across the world! We cannot have a repeat of last time.

— yourusername : have I really traumatised you that badly?

——y/bff/name : yes

—— lewishamilton : yes

—— yoursiblinguser : yes

—— friend1 : yes

—— danielricciardo: yes

—— oscarpiastri : yes

——yourusername : now hang on @oscarpiatri I don’t even know you!

— — oscarpiastri : wanna change that?

——- user11 : not you going after your dad’s ex

——-user14 : about to be a messy family reunion

——-danielricciardo : check that Aussie charm 🇦🇺

user7 : okay someone please talk about the lyrics????? Right off the bat it’s unhinged?? “WHY YOU WANT ME WHEN YOUVE GOT A GIRL??!” No cause that is so true like @charles_leclerc why are you still contacting her when Alex is right there?? (Liked by yourusername)

— user8 : ‘knowing it’s selfish, knowing I’m desperate’ oh she’s DOWN BAD!!

— user7 : you get it… cause DESPERATE, you’re describing yourself as desperate?? Bad bitch down in aisle 4 I fear!

user9 : lmao no cause you’ve outdone yourself! What do you mean ‘my man is my man, is your man. Heard that’s her man too’

— user21 : no cause she really is not a serious individual 😂

— user10 : the song is a bop don’t get me wrong but am I the only one who’s thinking about Alex in all this??

— user11 : poor girl hasn’t done anything apart from like a serial monogamist…

— user12 : I mean after this release Alex just needs to count her losses and leave him (liked by alexandrasaintmleux)

— user13 : oop- not her liking… clock it! But at this point I think this is just a messy situation where everyone’s gunna lose. Especially Alex poor girl never stood a chance

user22 : I just keep him satisfied through the weekend!

— user23 : you’re like 9 to 5 I’m the weekend!!!!

— user24 : make him lose his mind every weekend!!!!

sza : please god never let me be this down bad over a man 🙏🏾

— yourusername : now I know you’re not the one talking 🤨

badgalriri : 🖤

donatella_versace : DONATELLA VERSACE 💜

user17 : release the album NOW!

user18 : I’m sorry but weren’t we just mad at her? Releasing a song doesn’t make you automatically in the right? In fact even the song paints her as a bit of a villain :( I can’t imagine poor Alex listening to it.

— user19 : right? She’s practically begging him to cheat with her

— user15 : i really don’t know how to feel about the whole situation but it’s definitely not a good feeling…

••

TAGLIST

@forevercaffeinated-lee @callsignwidow

#charles leclerc smau #f1 smau #charles leclerc x black!reader #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x reader #formula 1 smau #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula one smau

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dycefic · 2 years ago

Text

The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

---

Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

#short fiction #original story #i aten't dead #the old gods #small gods #household gods #forgotten gods who do not forget

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