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ohtobeleah · 2 months ago

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Purgatory // Jack Abbot

Part 2of2

Summary: A patient brought in with the Pittfest mass casualty event experiences a psychosis of some sort. Jack Abbot doesn’t know it, but while he’s elbow deep in saving some guy's bowel…you’re attacked while just trying to help.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x Nurse!reader. Violence against women. Angst/whump.mediocre medical knowledge. Hurt!reader. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Older male x younger reader. Ambiguous ending.

Word Count: 5.8k

Author Note: Welp, it's great this storyline is finally out of my brain. Please enjoy the hurt/comfort. This took longer than originally expected to finish, so im glad you stuck around for it.

Previous Chapter

At the end of the day, the experience of practising medicine bears little resemblance to the dream. Jack Abbot went into medicine because he wanted to save lives. He went into medicine because he wanted to do good.

He went into medicine for the rush, the high, for the ride.

But what he tends to remember at the end of most days are the losses. When he lies awake at night, he replays the pain he caused or failed to cure. The lives he ruined or failed to save. So the experience of practising medicine, for Jack Abbot, that is, rarely resembles the goal.

The experience is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

And then, somehow, improbably and when you least expect it, the world rights itself again…

“She’s stable,” Two words that keep hope alive in Jack’s heart against all the odds. “For now, but it’s been touch and go, you know how it goes.” It was one of the ICU doctors who spoke to Jack like a colleague and not just another family member.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Jack replied. He stood firm with his arms crossed over his chest. “An infection?” He frowned, still trying to wrap his head around the idea that you had gotten worse before his very eyes. You were showing all the right signs of recovery. And then you coded…

The ICU, room one, bed one. Arguably, the most important room in the entire hospital. Reserved for critical patients on the brink. The touch and goes.

“SSI’s just sprint.” Your primary physician spoke as he shrugged his shoulders, mimicking Jack’s stance and body language as the pair watched you with an intensity that would have made anyone uncomfortable. “I’m optimistic, she’s healthy, young,” Jack caught the way that word fell from his colleague’s mouth. It had always been a topic of conversation around the hospital. The age gap between the two of you. It was no secret that Jack was nineteen years your senior.

“She thinks you’re an arrogant son of a bitch, you know?” Jack wasn’t shy about the way he said it. He wanted Adam to know what you thought of him, even if he played a helping hand in saving your life. Because in reality? Regardless f he was a great doctor, he was still a fucking prick or a thing.

“All I’m saying is, she was healthy before she was injured, she’s strong, has good odds even given the current circumstances.” You occupied the space like a ghost haunting an old, decrepit house with a tragic story just for the history books. “When she wakes up, she can tell me to my face.”

“I put in a transfer to work nights here for a while.” The ICU had its own rules and regulations around visitors. How many, what times, how long, ect ect. Jack wasn’t willing to play the game the way he was being told…He just wanted to be next to you.

“That so?” Jack’s colleague, Adam, raised his eyebrows in a shocked expression. “You know, even if you’re on shift and she takes a turn, you can’t–”

“I know, I know,” Jack sighed. He was sick of being told he couldn’t help you. It was killing him. He had all these skills, all this knowledge and ability…Yet it was all worth shit when it came to you. “If one more person tells me that.”

“My little girl was in here a few months ago,” Adam explained, hoping to give Jack some comfort in the back seat he found himself in. “It’s hard to relinquish trust in others when it comes to our family members, at the end of the day, yes, she’s your wife,” Adam emphasised the wife part, just to remind Jack that you weren’t dead yet and that you were still very much his wife. “But I gotta tell you, brother, she’s the most important person in my case load, I won’t let you, or her, down,” Adam was firm. He was stern. “Work down here as long as you need to, but I got her, only reason she’s here is because that damn SSI just went sleeper agent until it was ready to erupt.”

Jack acknowledged his colleague’s words with a tight-lipped nod before he made his way over to your bedside, pulling out the chair he’s spent hours in already.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack’s entire demeanour changed when he was with you; everyone saw it. Adam just watched on silently as Jack held your hand between his, whispering sweet nothings like prayers to a god he didn’t believe in. “It’s been too long, I need you here, I don’t know how to…” The pause, the weighted silence that filled the room. It was heavier than Jack expected. “I don’t know how to do this without you, I need you to wake up, I’m not asking, I’m not giving you anymore time here, stop being a stubborn–”

“Woah–” Robby interrupted from the doorway. Jack didn’t even need to turn around to recognise his best friend’s voice. “I wouldn’t wanna wake up if you were talkin to me like that,” He faked insult with raised eyebrows and a small sigh. His hands held his stethoscope on either side as he walked in. Adam made his way out, there were far too many people in your room for his liking. “How’s my favourite drama queen doing today?”

“She’s stable,” Jack relayed what Adam had told him. “For now.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about Y/n,” Robby snickered to himself as he placed a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. “How are you, brother? Talk to me.”

“It just feels like…” Jack sighed to himself as he tried to think of the perfect word to describe what he was feeling. All the emotions. All the built-up regret. The trauma. The sleepless nights and empty stomach. The constant nausea from worry. This wasn’t who he was.

But it was the effect you had on him. He loved you more than he loved himself, and that was clear to everyone around Jack Abbot.

“...Purgatory.” Jack settled on a word. A complete sentence. One word to describe all the pain, the heartbreak, the sorrow.

Robby nodded with tight lips as he checked over your monitors. Again, all signs were pointing in the right direction. But he’d said the same thing before you coded. He was confident in you that you'd pull through with no further complications or deficits. He didn't venture down to the ICU often, not since Covid at least. But you were family.

“I can't lose her.”

“I don’t think she’s letting you off the hook that easily,” Robby chuckled softly. You were like a sister to him. An annoying extension of Jack Abbot himself. “Go home, get some rest, you have to start taking more care of yourself. I’ll sit with her for a while and call if anything changes.”

“She coded when I took a shower, I'm not going anywhere,” Jack argued. His demeanour hardened within the blink of an eye. “I'll sit with her until my shift starts.”

Robby knew it was pointless to argue, but it was six thirty in the fucking morning and it was too early to have a headache. So he conceded to Jack's stubborn desire to remain by your side. Robby knew if it were him in Jack's shoes, he’d be losing it too.

“Fine, page me if you need something. Can I tell the crew you’re in the building so that if you’re needed?”

“Always,” Jack replied. His intense gaze never left you. He was hoping if he made up uncomfortable enough that you’d wake up and tell him to fuck off.

Much to his own dismay, you didn't. Instead of counting sheep like a normal person, Jack knew that the little sleep he’d get the next time his eyes closed, he’d be counting worst-case scenarios without you to calm his mind and ease his nerves.

—--------------------------------------------

“Ignore him. He had a rough night and is having an ongoing existential crisis.” Robby teases, but not really. The statement is true.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get there soon enough,” Jack replied. He’d had enough. Even a workaholic needs a break from time to time. All things considered, Jack was well overdue. “Jesus fucking christ, get me outta here.” He looked up to the heavens above, well, the fluorescent lights at least.

“He doesn’t answer whenever I call,” You sighed as you came round the corner of the nurse’s station, deciding to plant yourself with a thud on the chair Jack was originally leaning over. “So if he answers, I know he’s playing fucking favorites.”

“What’s up with you?” Jack frowned. He hadn’t seen you in what felt like hours. It probably had been hours, but the Emergency Room felt like an endless pit of disappear on its good days. Time was only relevant in the concept of saving lives, not society’s standards.

“That arrogant son of a bitch from ICU was called down to consult, tried to hit me up for my number again.” You grumbled as you rummaged through all your pockets, emptying the bits and bobs you’d collected throughout your shift. “He knows we’re married, right?” You finally looked up to where Jack had been standing with his arms now crossed over his chest.

“It’s probably the only thing known about me around here,” Jack replied as you let your head hang back, exposing your neck in a way that shouldn’t have made Jack’s heart race…but it did. You were his wife at the end of the day. And he was at the very core of it all…

Just a guy who loved his wife.

“That’s what I’m saying!” You groaned. Jack watched as you cupped your face and let out an exaggerated sigh into your palms. “Men, I hope I never end up as one of his patients.”

“You and me both, slugger, need me to have a chat with him?’ Jack asked with a genuine concern in his voice. “Just say the word and–”

You panicked at the very thought, Jack could tell as you shot up and uncovered your face.

“No, thank you.” You smiled softly. “I don’t want someone going missing, or worse.” You gave Jack a look he recognised immediately. A few months ago, there had been an incident involving a scalpel, your husband and one of the male nurses from the renal ward.

“I keep a knife in my pocket.” Jack joked, sending you a wink. But there was a small part of him that wasn’t joking. He’d kill whoever he had to if they were putting you in an awkward position.

“I’m good, down boy.” Your smile was as infectious, the best kind of medicine. Jack smiled, nodding in agreement.

He remembered his reason to keep coming back. Not that he truly ever forgot. The wedding band wrapped around his left ring finger was a permanent fixture.

“Before we get too far away, everyone!” Robby’s voice sounded off in earshot of where Jack stood. He was getting closer. “I’d like to introduce you all to Y/n.”

“Uh, hi?” You waved slightly, still sitting on the spinning chair you had crashed into before. Jack knew it was probably the first time you’d sat down all shift.

“This is Dr. Jack Abbot,” Once again, Robby introduced his best friend, but this time to all the new residents. Not just Mel. “Y/n here is gonna be your best friend in the Pitt.”

“Oh, for the love of—“

Jack smirked as he interrupted you, “He doesn’t call either.” He swore that if you had rolled your eyes any harder at him, you would have fallen over.

“Treat her with respect and she’ll make your shift as smooth as possible,” Robby explained. He respected you way too much for him not to pass that onto his students. “Disrespect her? And you're automatically out of here, end of story.”

“I thought Dana was the charge nurse?” Dr. Santos asked. Jack frowned slightly at her question. But she wasn’t wrong. It was just her delivery.

“Yeah,” Robby caught the look on Jack’s face. “But she isn’t married to Dr. Abbot here, and there’s a reason he works nights.”

“He bites.” You teased quickly with a smirk at the new residents. Jack was quick to correct your statement.

“I don’t bite.” It was like a drug to him. The banter. The flirtatious love that radiated off the two of you. Jack loved you with everything he was. “What is your problem?”

Jack saw that you went to respond. He saw that look in your eye. That inappropriate look. That look that told him you were about to say something completely out of pocket. Something downright crude. But you didn’t get the chance to before Robby interrupted.

“Point is!” Robby raised his eyebrows in the way someone would when they narrowly avoid an awkward moment. “She’s important to us, which means she’s important to you guys, and you guys have been warned,” He chuckled as he crossed his arms over his chest and swayed his hips side to side casually. “If you’d like to push the boundaries, by all means, have at it, but Dr. Abbot here doesn’t do bullshit.”

Jack nodded. He admired you with a pride like no other. You were nothing short of a superhero with everything that you did around here. “Our nurses, especially my one, know what they’re doing. Never hesitate to listen to them, especially?” Jack raised his eyebrows, waiting for the residents to finish his sentence.

“This one,” Everyone croaked out nervously.

“Well done.” Jack was satisfied. Soon enough, he was turning back to where you sat, now slumped into your chair a little further.

“Don’t listen to him,” Sighing, you stood. “But seriously, don’t make my life miserable.” It was a tease…but Jack knew you were also quietly begging them not to make your life harder than it needed to be. Sometimes doctors had a tendency to forget just how important and valuable nurses are in the medical field.

Robby ushered all his ducklings away. Every year, they came through all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tailed not knowing hell awaited them. Jask watched the group walk away until they were out of his peripheral vision.

“Thank fuck this shift is over, lets get the fuck outta here.” Jack groaned as he tapped you on the shoulder. Giving you a small pep up to get up off the chair. You rose to your feet and met your husband’s gaze.

There was nothing but mutual admiration in both your eyes. A love that ran deep. A fierce, unconditional understanding that this was it for both of you.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

—---------------------------------

Humans like to think that they’re rational beings. Humane. Conscientious. Civilised. Thoughtful. But when things fall apart, even just a little, it becomes clear. We’re no better than animals.

We have opposable thumbs. We think. We walk erect. We speak. We dream. But deep down, we’re all still rooting around in the primordial ooze. Biting. Clawing. Scratching out an existence.

In the cold, dark world, like the rest of the tree toads and sloths.

“This is your third session. And you still haven’t said anything yet.” The man who sat across from Jack said as he placed his clipboard down. “Now, while I love the quiet time, um…”

“I read a study that, uh, says that just the, you know, act of going to thearaly is beneficial, even if you don’t say anything. Even if you just sit.” Jack explained as he sat quietly across the small office from his therapist.

His second therapist. This was work-mandated therapy. Twice a week. Jack wasn’t going to stop working, but he also wasn’t allowed to keep working if he didn’t speak to a professional.

“So you thought you’d come here and just sit?” His name was Ben. Jack didn’t have a problem with Ben. It was just that Jack already had a pretty good therapist. And he wasn’t the kind of person who just went about telling anyone willing to listen about his problems. “That’s how you’re gonna solve your problems?”

“I don’t have problems.” Jack didn’t hesitate to correct his work-ordered therapist. He just wanted to get back down to work. But it was Thursday night, which meant Jack Abbot had a forty-five-minute session of mandatory therapy to get through before he could begin his shift.

“What brings you here?” Ben reiterated. He knew denial like the back of his hand. It's what he did best. Denying the inevitable. That's why he became a grievance guide. Someone to help people transition through death as easily as possible.

“Look, I’m fine,” Jack sighed as he leaned forward so that his elbows could rest on his knees. He tossed the idea around in his head, the one about telling Ben he wasn’t really sleeping too well. “It’s just–I haven’t been sleeping an awful lot.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. This was good. This was progress. This was clipboard-worthy.

The truth of the matter was that Jack hadn't slept a decent amount since your accident. He was working doubles. Doing anything in his power to remain busy. Because if he stopped to think about you for just a second? He wanted to collapse.

He wanted to die because living in a world without you was something straight out of a horror show. Jack had seen wartime practices. He'd experienced loss to the maximum degree. He never lost his cool in chaos. But you?

You made him unravel in ways he couldn't begin to explain. Layer by layer, like an onion, you weaselled your way into every fibre of his being.

“How long have you not been sleeping?” Ben asked casually. This was new. This was the most he had been able to get out of Dr. Abbot in days. He’d been assigned to him as a new patient under the banner of grievance counselling.

Only Jack wasn’t aware of that as he spoke about his non-existent sleeping routine.

“You know,” He shrugged. He wasn't about to say it either. “It’s been six weeks and I can’t sleep.”

“Six weeks since what?” Ben didn’t mean to press too much, but he wanted Jack to keep opening up. It was small steps. But the first step needed to be Jack saying it. Saying why he was here. At grievance counselling.

That you were dying. There was a high probability that you weren't going to wake up. That's why he was here. Jack had to know that, right?

Sensing Jack’s hesitation to keep going, Ben interjected with something bordering on professionalism and out-of-scope practices.

“Look, I work in this hospital. I try not to listen to gossip, but this is a very gossipy place.” Jack hated that his dude worked in the hospital too. Whatever happened to work-life balance? Not that he had a balance of any sort. But seeing a therapist in the hospital where your wife is in a coma, in which you also work, seems like a lot of sway for the work side. “So there are some things that I’ve heard–”

“Y/n isn’t the reason I’m here.” Jack interrupted his therapist’s train of thought. You weren't the problem. You could never be a problem.

“Then what brings you here?” Ben tried again, this time with more intent. He needed Jack to snap out of this delusion he found himself in, one where you were okay and he wasn’t having conversations with your care team about end-of-life care.

“You know, I gotta go, I have to check in with my patients and see who’s next on the wheel of misfortune.” He didn’t really. But Jack would rather be anywhere else in the world than in this office, with this…guy.

“Dr. Abbot, if you’d just–!” But it was too late. Jack was making distance down the hall. So much so that instead of ending up in the Emergency Department, he ended up at the double doors to the ICU.

With his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants, Jack Abbot stared long and hard at the closed, automatic doors. He knew you were right behind them, still off in whatever place you’d gone to that wasn’t here with him.

Six weeks…

It had been six agonisingly sleepless weeks of you in this stupid ward. The ICU ward. The ward they make you buzz in for every time. God he hated that shit. Because sometimes there wasn’t someone at the desk to buzz you.

They stopped allowing Jack from using his credentials to gain access to the ICU when he wasn’t technically working. Another bullshit rule he hated.

*Buzz*

“ICU, visiting hours are over.” There was no care in the time of voice that came through the speaker. Jack made a note of that. Whoever it was that greeted him, a family member just wanted to visit a loved one in need, needed a crash course in bedside manner.

“It’s Dr. Abbot.” That was all Jack said into the small microphone on the wall. There was nothing else said on the other end either; the doors simply opened.

But the bedside manner talk could wait. Everything else in the world could wait. Because once Jack was in the ICU, all that mattered was you. He thrived in emergencies. Jack Abbot was a soul who knew how to remain calm in storms. He knew how to problem-solve and control chaos.

But it all crumbled when he saw you, his wife, still plugged up to every machine known to man with every bit of lifesaving intervention that could help keep you here with him.

“I just sat in my third appointment this week without speaking,” Jack says to you like you’re listening to him. He believes it to some extent. “Ben, god, I hate that guy,” He sighs heavily as he sits beside you. Checking every monitor and every stat as he does.

Normal. Everything’s fucking normal so why are you not waking up? Even the sedation had decreased.

“What am I even doing here?” Jack frowns. He knows this isn't healthy. “You aren’t waking up, are you?” It’s a question that Jack wants to be wrong about. But he knows that after eight weeks, two before your SSI and six weeks with, your chances were dwindling.

“I miss you so much.” It’s a pained moment, a tight feeling inside his chest. Jack thinks maybe he’s having a heart attack. But it’s just his breaking in a way he’d never experienced before. “You have you, you know, wake up.” There are tears now. Jack swears he doesn’t remember when he started crying. Or when he reached out to move the hair from your face. Or when your hand was wrapped tightly in his. He missed the way you’d squeeze his hand back in times of troubleshooting. “Because all this talk of you maybe…not…is scaring me out of my mind.”

There’s a little animal in all of us. And maybe that’s something to celebrate. Our animal instinct is what makes us seek comfort. Warmth. A pack to run with.

We may feel caged. We may feel trapped. But still, as humans, we can all still find ways to feel free. We are each other's keepers. We are the guardians of our humanity.

Even though there are beasts inside all of us, what sets us apart from animals is that we can think, feel, dream and love…and against all odds, against all instinct, we evolve.

It was something Jack's actual therapist would tell him from time to time when things felt especially hard. But right now, after watching you slowly fade away from him over the course of eight weeks, Jack had started to believe he was maybe two weeks away from being sent to the pound.

“I can't have you stuck here like this anymore, you gotta give me something to work with, sweetheart,” Jack begs. He doesn't want to make the call himself. And he also can't bring himself to give up. “You gotta pull through, you don't have a choice here, I'm telling you, and that's it.”

It's a gentle squeeze that Jack doesn't register at first.

“Yeah, you heard me, no excuses, no damn choice, wake up.” He speaks casually. His mind hasn't caught up to the sensation of your hand squeezing his back. “Woah—hang on, can you hear me?”

Jack has never moved faster. He's on his feet in seconds. Standing over you with his pocket pen-light in your eyes, shining it directly at you while he holds your face ever so gently.

“Sweetheart, it's me, can you follow the light?” You do, but only for a brief moment. “I need Dr. Stevenson NOW!” Jack bellows out as he relays what's happening. “She's waking up!”

Your eyes are barely open, there's still a tube down your throat. But the hand in yours that's squeezing you back is Jack’s.

The experience is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

And then, somehow, improbably and when you least expect it, the world rights itself again…

“I've got you,” sweetheart,” Jack cries while he holds your hand. He was afraid, as afraid as he was when he lost his leg, that if he let go, you'd never come back. “I'm right here.”

——————————————-

The first time you could hear something, outside of the context, you needed to understand the topic of discussion, was “We’ve done the best that we can given the circumstances.” Conversation with your husband.

But now, without so much as an explanation. You were seeing Jack hovering over you. A bright flash of white light took over your vision for a few seconds. “Ah, angel of mine.” You thought to yourself as Jack's silhouette came back to the forefront of your vision.

It felt like a dream at first. Nothing felt real or tangible. It was a space between life and death. A place where nothing could grow, age or learn. It was a space for the hopeful. The already dead. The ones who weren’t ready and the ones who were.

“Purgatory,” You tried to speak but couldn’t. There was something in your throat that panicked you.

“It's alright, Y/n, you were intubated, but we’re gonna take it out alright? Just a nice deep exhale for us, okay?” Words. They were all just a bunch of mumbled words. You couldn't tell where they were coming from or who they were coming from.

But the second that tube was pulled from your throat, everything started to hurt.

“Y/n? Are you with us, Earth side? Talk to us?”

“Feel,” You tried to speak through coughs and splatters. “Hurt.”

It wasn't exactly what Jack wanted to hear as he watched everything unfold. His hand never left yours as people worked around him. They were all scared to tell him to leave.

“You've been in a coma, you were attacked on shift a few weeks back and suffered a pretty nasty head trauma? Do you remember that?” The question was asked without much emotional range, maybe because everyone was focusing on getting you to a more comfortable place. Less tubes, fewer wires.

“Yes—” You tried to speak, but everything hurt. Your head felt like it was about to explode.

“Do you remember anything afterwards?”

“Jack?” You cracked out. It was barely audible. But he heard you loud and clear. Like you were singing sweet symphonies just for him.

“I'm here,” He cooed gently with such a desire, it nearly took the limited breath out of your lungs. “I'm right here, shhh, you're okay, you're doing just fine, sweetheart,”

It was weird for everyone to see Jack with such a burning endearment for your well-being. No one in their right mind was about to tell that man to leave. Not when he'd been down here every day to some extent. Bossing people around. Brooding. Living in existential crisis mode.

“Never thought I'd see the day!” Somewhat in the shuffle, someone had called Robby down. He was just getting ready to finish up his shift. But if his favourite person was about to grace him with the gift of consciousness, then he wasn't going anywhere. He was right where he needed and wanted to be. “Y/n, how's it feel to be with the living?” He smiled wildly.

“Like—” It was a struggle. Everything hurt all at once. It was full-body dullness. An incomprehensible ache. “Arse.”

Robby just smiled down at you. He was taking in the sight of you. Much like Jack was. Only his eyes conveyed a worry that Jack didn't express. He was worried about the possible deficits.

"I bet,” Robby replied. “I won't sugarcoat it, you've been in the trenches, my friend, but one day at a time we’re gonna get you back on your feet.”

“Stats are holding, BP is steady, she might be really tired for the next few days.” Dr. Adam Stevenson added. Jack knew all this. He was a seasoned pro in the art of addressing family members. But it still didn't make it easier to be on the receiving end.

“Where am I?” You questioned softly. Your eyes were barely open. But Jack still had his hand in yours, and that's all that mattered to him. You were squeezing his hand. “What's—what's going on?”

“You were hurt pretty bad,” Jack started. It was the way that he got as close to you as he possibly could that broke Robby the most. “You never gave up, though.” He continued through tear-stricken eyes. “And then you got sick, but you still never stopped fighting.” It was like Jack was proud of you, or at least that’s how he sounded. You couldn’t do anything but try and smile up at him. The muscles in your face hurt. Everything fucking hurt.

“How,” You strained out, one word at a time. It felt like you’d just run a marathon. “Are, you?”

“Me?” Jack frowned as his eyes scanned every inch of you. “You have been fighting for your life for eight weeks, and you’re worried me how I am? Me?” When you simply nodded in response, that’s when Jack broke. He let himself cry. He sobbed like he’d been holding everything in. It was like Jack Abbot had taken his first breath in eight long, agonising weeks. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

“Hey,” Robby gestured with his chin at Dr. Stevenson, “Let’s give them some space, she’s stable.” He didn’t respond, but he left the room with Robby following right behind. They both stayed close by, unable to take their eyes off your monitors.

“You were just…gone.” Jack cried as he laid his head next to your torso. Your hand was resting on his cheek, gently caressing his scruff-covered chin. “You just left, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get you back.”

“Why would you lose me?” Jack barely caught it. He thought maybe you were just paying yourself some credit for making it out the other side. But as he looked up at you through teary eyes, he saw it. The split-second seizure.

“Robby?” Jack called out as he watched your eyes roll into the back of your head. It was only for a brief second, but it still happened. “She's having seizures.”

“Page neuro, get someone down here,” Adam shouted as he stepped back into the room. Robby was hot on his tail.

“Where am I?” You asked softly. It broke Jake's heart to see the confusion in your eyes. The pain. The hurt. “Jack?”

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” Jack cooed as he ran the pad of his thumb across your chin. “You're good, I've got you.”

“She's probably experiencing some form of post-traumatic memory loss,” Robby suggested as he observed you. “I'd like to think it's not a permanent thing we’re looking at, but for now, I think we'll run some tests and wait and see what the next few hours bring.”

“We don’t have time to just sit around a fucking wait!” Jack finally cracked. Everyone had been waiting for it for weeks now. They knew he was walking a fine line between keeping his composure and fully losing it on the next person who said something remotely dumb. It was like a full-on out-of-body experience. Anger that knew no bounds. “Jesus fucking christ, am I losing my goddamn mind here? Or did she just forget everything that happened in the last ten minutes?”

“Something to be expected,” Robby reminded the emergency physician who saw injuries, much like yours, every day. “It's something we prepared for, so it's something we can, hopefully, overcome.”

“I remember you.” Was all you had to say for Jack to be back inside his own body. The anger had diminished to near nothing. It had been replaced by pure, unconditional love. “I also remember he doesn't answer.” You were just resting your eyes a little. Your eyelids felt like cement blinds. But you knew Jack was smiling.

“Oh, he answered me today,” He sighed as he leaned in to kiss your cheeks as softly as he could. “Finally, someone up there got the call.”

“No fucking way,” You mumbled back. Robby had pushed a small amount of pain relief to help keep you comfortable as Jack settled in. He wasn't working tonight. Or tomorrow night, or any other night until he knew you were truly okay. He just got you back. Like hell was he leaving your side.

“I'd even deem this a miracle,” Robby added. “Besides, this guy's been public enemy number one since you coded in the Emergency Room, so it's nice to have you back to keep him from, you know,” He suggested what all three of you knew.

“Who are you? Dr. Rabinovitch?” You sighed heavily as you settled. Still holding Jack's hand. He wasn't letting go. Neither were you.

“Very funny,” Robby smirked, crossing his arms as he did so. “I'll leave the two of you here, but I'll be back with Neuro.”

Jack never once took his eyes off you. His gaze was all-consuming. It was the eye contact he desperately craved.

As you looked up at him, Jack's eyes again filled with tears. You were back. You were alive. You were here with him.

“You've been everyone's issue while I've been gone?” You asked gently in your drug-induced lavender haze. “Haven't you, Abbot?”

Jack smiled back at you. Counting his lucky stars. Jack knew you’d find out eventually. But he thought, why not give in to you a little? So, without much probing needed. Jack settled into his chair. He pulled up his cargo pants and undid the suction on his prosthetic leg. The titanium limb laid awkwardly on the floor beside him. But this was as comfortable as Jack Abbot was going to get.

“You don't even know the half of it, sweetheart.”

And with you by his side? He didn't mind it one little bit.

--------------------------------

#jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot #jack abbot angst #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you

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bluebellles · 2 months ago

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"i'll sell, I'll sell my whole to you; what's my, what's my price? how about, how about just a part of you?"

a lemurian's bond is a tether, an oath rafayel bears like a blessing. what happens if he betrays it?

pairing: rafayel x reader / rafayel x non!mc reader but also not ... form your own conclusions

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, isekai and transmigration, not exactly fluff but not NOT fluff at the end, sfw

cw: panic attacks, blood, technically self-harm, ambiguous endings, this can be a standalone but belongs to a longer in-progress fic, girl with a lvl -10 charisma stat tries to write a character with a lvl 1000 charisma stat let's all give her some grace, mc's role lacks context but its very complex NO mc bashing here

He couldn’t stop the claws forming as he tore at his chest, trying to get rid of the tightness. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?

His lungs felt like lead and his throat burned as though it was filling with salt water. Choked gasps brought more pain than the bloodied marks scraped across his skin. Was this how it felt to drown? Was this his karma?

He couldn’t see past the heavy film that covered his eyes, had no idea they were flashing rapidly between pink and blue. Couldn’t hear past the shrill ringing in his ears. His bond seared in his chest, cold and burning and heavy and hollow.

He’d never know how he got to your doorstep that night. He was a man possessed. Filthy and shattered and wrong. Didn’t remember slumping against your door with a sickening thud, didn’t come back to coherence until you showed up in front of him with a terrified expression.

Why did you look so scared? Was that his fault? Did he fuck this up too?

He wanted to wipe that horrified look off your face. It didn’t belong there. He reached a shaky hand up to brush against your cheek and watched you crumble further when it came away bloody.

His unfocused eyes pinpricked as he tracked the marks. Something settled ever so slightly in his chest at the sight. At least it was proof. Proof that he could still touch you. Proof that he was still yours. He wanted to cut himself open further so you could see. You still know, right?

“What are you doing here?” Your voice was shaking uncontrollably, your hands hovering out in front of you like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you should. He was yours to touch. Why didn’t you know? “Should I- I mean do you need me to call someone? Should I call her?”

Rafayel cannot stop the honest to god growl that escapes him at your last question, causing you to flinch back as his eyes flash that haunting, otherworldly blue. First he betrayed his bond and then he made his one and only mate, the other half of him, afraid. What a worthy god he had turned out to be.

Your fear quickly shifts back into panicked concern when his gasped, choking breaths resumed and he began clawing once again at his chest. Whatever calm you had instilled in him shattered as the bond began aching inside of him once again, sharp barbs that clawed into his ribs and pulled.

Resolving yourself, you surged forward and wrapped your hands around his wrists as you tried to stop his self flagellation.

“How do I help?” You aren’t sure when you started crying.

His gaze tries to meet yours as his vision fades in and out. Your touch is already a cool balm against his stinging hands, a calming reprieve he couldn’t possibly deserve.

“Tell me what to do,” he begs, hands twisting around to clasp yours. He can’t stop his claws from digging into you. Another sin for him to atone for.

Your brows knit together in confusion. He takes your left hand and drags it to the bloodied mess below his collarbones. Your palm spreads over his bond mark, burning under his rapidly heaving chest. Your breath hitches in your throat.

For the first time, you cannot close your eyes and look away from your role in this world. You still aren’t sure what it means. If you’re some sort of parasite causing this kind of turmoil and agony. At this moment, it doesn’t matter.

“Breathe, Rafayel,” you command.

The effect is instantaneous. All the breath in his lungs rushes out of him in one fell swoop. It takes a few tries before he can intake more, even longer before the trembling of his limbs settles down.

The Lemurian slumps forward, relief palpable as his face collapses into your neck. His breathing is still ragged and hoarse and his blood drips onto your oversized pajama shirt. Neither of you notice.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles out hoarsely, before fading out of consciousness.

You don’t think he’s referring to the stains on your clothes.

You sit for hours on your front porch, feeling the weight of him press into you like a boulder you had been refusing to shoulder for far too long. The chill of the night air soaks into your bones and you welcome the ache.

More than ever, you felt the desperate need to run. To escape from this world before the damage you left carved itself far deeper than the wounds marring the chest of the man who slept against you.

What a beautiful man he was. Flawless skin, a perfect nose that sloped down into pouted lips. Impossibly soft hair and sinewy muscle created to mimic the epitome of human desire. Everything about him was otherworldly, meticulously mapped out to create a creature who was made to love and be loved in return.

Absolute perfection, deteriorated into a bloodied mess with sunken eyes and lips tinged blue from lack of oxygen. Panicked and desperate and feral all because of some faulty code.

You would find a way to fix this world even if it meant removing yourself from it. For now, though, you could no longer keep shoving away your responsibilities and hoping someone else will pick up the pieces. As wrong as your presence may be in this universe, it was still your mess to clean up.

For now, though, you just closed your weary eyes and fell asleep next to a fallen god.

When you wake again, everything is soft and warm. Sunlight blinks through your blinds and washes over you. There is a gentle clamoring trickling into your bedroom through the partially cracked door and your body is clad in fuzzy socks you don’t remember putting on the night before.

As a matter of fact, you don’t remember getting into bed at all.

You shoot up, suddenly very alert. An appetizing smell wafts into your room from the kitchen as you scan your brain and recall the horrific events from the night before.

Sliding out of bed, you give yourself a quick once over in the mirror and smooth down the bird’s nest roosting on your head before cautiously poking your head outside.

Sure enough, the man in question was currently making himself at home with your stovetop as he expertly flipped what looked like a perfectly seasoned egg crepe. He looked incredibly refreshed compared to the night before with a billowing, clean shirt tucked into perfectly tailored black pants and no trace of the dark circles that had weighed down his eyes previously.

He looked out of place in the small, cluttered space of your home. Like someone had accidentally dropped a rose into a vase of wildflowers. Despite the contrast, he seemed perfectly at ease as he puttered around your tiny kitchen without a single inclination that he had been attempting to tear his own heart out of his chest just hours ago.

A floorboard creaked beneath your feet and he paused, whipping around to face you faster than you could jump back into the safety of your bedroom.

You wanted to hide from the intensity in his gaze. Curl up and wilt away from the way he drank you in as if seeing you for the first time.

You wondered if he could tell, because he closed his eyes for a moment too long to be a blink before turning away again and trying to relax the tension in his shoulders.

“Morning sleepyhead,” his voice was deceptively casual, measured and curated to disarm as opposed to his desperate pleas from last night, “Or should I say afternoon? Do all humans sleep as much as you or are you a special breed? I was starting to think you slipped into a coma.”

“You… egg?” Was your very eloquent response.

His shoulders actually did relax at that, carefully plating the egg and scallion crepe before turning around and placing it in front of one of the stools that lined your kitchen island.

“Me Rafayel,” he pointed to himself with a haughty smirk before beckoning you towards the crepe, “The egg is for you.”

You scowled at this, making no move to sit down. Instead, you glanced down at yourself, realizing for the first time that underneath the oversized hoodie you definitely did not put on yourself you’re still wearing the pajama shirt stained with the fish in question’s blood.

He pouts, as if he was hoping you wouldn’t notice.

“I didn’t want to take it off while you were… anyways, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” he sniffs as if that was your main concern.

“I got this shirt out of the five dollar bin at the flea market,” you remark dryly, “I’m pretty sure if you take this thing to the dry cleaner’s they’ll pay you to let them throw it away.”

He pauses, assessing you carefully before putting on an air of fake nonchalance.

“Icanjusttakeitthen,” he spills out, the words too rushed to be as casual as he was aiming for.

“What?”

“…Why?”

It’s at this point that Rafayel blushes, leaving you to blink in alarmed confusion before eyeing him like he might still be in the middle of his breakdown.

“Your egg is going to get cold,” he changes the subject poorly, “Are you seriously just going to ignore my hospitality?”

You considered letting him know that hospitality is usually for hosts and not their guests (does he even count as a guest if you never invited him inside?) but you were quickly distracted by the sound of your stomach rumbling in protest.

Instead you shrug and settle down at the island, picking up your fork and taking a curious bite. The flavors are simple but delicious, the richness of the egg melding perfectly with the seasoning he used and chopped scallion that was definitely too fresh to have been rotting in your fridge. He must have picked up groceries when he went to change his clothes.

Your eyes light up at the taste and you make yourself comfortable before digging in. In your enthusiasm, you don’t notice the satisfied look that shutters across Rafayel’s expression before returning to his normal aloof state.

“Anyways, you must be wondering what I’m doing in your kitchen at,” he glances at your microwave clock, “three p.m. on a Saturday.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

“To talk about…,” you hesitated, “…last night?”

“BZZT!” you jump a little at his sudden exclamation, watching him press an imaginary button in front of him, “Wrong! Try again.”

“You’re auditioning to be my private chef?”

“Tempting, but you probably couldn’t afford me.”

“You just like to break into people’s houses for fun?”

“Not usually under such pleasant circumstances.”

You quickly grow tired of guessing, opting instead to shovel more crepe into your mouth. He pouts a little at your lack of participation.

“Some private investigator you are,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t actually really care that much.”

“Trying reverse psychology now, huh?”

“It’s seriously fine if you don’t want to tell me.”

“Fine, fine, you’ve pried it out of me,” he snaps his fingers, “I’m here to hire you for a case.”

This gave you pause. Had you not already been aware of the depth of Rafayel’s character from playing through the game, you may have taken his flippant disregard for the events that occurred the night before at face value. Knowing what you did, however, a few things were very apparent to you.

The first being that although the Lemurian felt emotions very deeply, for him to have displayed that level of vulnerability to what was essentially a complete stranger was incredibly out of character. You knew that despite his propensity for dramatics, Rafayel was more than likely the love interest with the most emotional maturity and control.

You also knew that it was this emotional intelligence that ensured that the out he was giving in this moment was not for himself. Despite this being only the second time you had met, you were certain he had already dissected your psyche and could read your innermost desires even better than yourself. That was a siren’s greatest asset, after all.

You were a runner. You certainly had questions about what had caused the Lemurian to end up on your doorstep, and you could almost guarantee he had many of his own for you. He could probably tell, however, that direct confrontation would only make you retreat back into your shell faster than he could say “bond”.

His eyes tracked you with false nonchalance, a predator waiting to see if you would take the bait. Perhaps he was suspicious that you knew more than you were letting on, or maybe he believed you had answers he needed.

Either way, the misdirect to working a case was not only a well-crafted trap for you to sink into but also, possibly unbeknownst to him, a rather generous one.

After all, just last night you had vowed to start taking ownership of your parasitic presence in this world. Rafayel was supplying you with the perfect opportunity to insert yourself deeper into the narrative without truly getting close to anyone. As long as you could keep that barrier between yourselves, it was essentially the perfect in.

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #lads #l&ds #rafayel x reader #non!mc #isekai #transmigration #love and deepspace angst #lads angst #rafayel love and deepspace #lnds rafayel #love and deepspace hurt/comfort #belle's bakery

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cinnaminsvga · 1 year ago

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Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him.

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.

But you do know, the universe responds.

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.

#bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts reader insert #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bangtan #bts #bts fanfic

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bonus-links · 5 months ago

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rereading with the latest update to get caught up, and now I know its an option I am desperate for director's commentary on Ruins pt7, if you're willing, please

(Also I first started reading this before taking sign langauge classes, and while I am learning a different SL to ASL/whatever Slate is using, some things translate well. Which is to say I was very excited seeing Loft use thank you and other small signs, or recognising Slate's signs. Its very cool!)

OH AN OLDIE yeah sure!! i will do my best to remember wtf i was on about lol

first of all. this was posted in 2023. what do u mean it's 2025 and im only on ch2. explodes. ANYWAY.

I'm still proud of myself this this panel thing w the arrow lol where it's both coming towards the octorok and has already gone through it. this is something that didn't rlly end up making it into the final product but I don't think Slate actually makes a habit of just killing monsters willy nilly. I don't see him hunting down every monster in Hyrule after the calamity ends. He kills this octorok bc they antagonize the horses but also because. I needed an excuse for his bow to already be out HAHA

I have complicated feelings about the yiga and what their lore implies lol but for Slate's part, he has personal beef with them on account of how many times they're tried and nearly succeeded in killing him. I like to imagine the Yiga as both deeply goofy and also a serious threat at the same time lol, which i think sums up how Slate feels about them.

I did however want to take this opportunity to show his capacity to be a brutal fighter, the same way Loft is in the opening of ch1. Actually the idea for this scene even came about because in my own late-stage game I kept getting attacked by a blademaster literally every 2 feet in certain regions, and I was getting so frustrated by it I just started obliterating them with ancient arrows 💀 Slate using way more arrows than necessary was a nod to that. idk maybe this guy lived lol

this scene was also to spur comparisons between Slate and Loft's experiences. Loft is brutal with monsters, but he's never killed a human being. Realizing that the Yiga aren't monsters shocks him.

this is a failure of my own paneling bc I didn't have enough room on the page and refused to add another, but Loft is hallucinating this guardian being active. all the guardians are inactive since defeating the calamity. actually what I should have done was add a red targeting line that then disappeared in the next panel. MAN.

alright and probably what you actually wanted commentary on, first Champion sighting! The first time Slate actually sees Champion is at the end of ch1, so if you're wondering if Slate knows he's there in this scene, the answer is no. I think rather than following Slate around all along, Champion has spent most of his time just sort of. barely existing here at Fort Hateno, or sitting with the master sword. He's not exactly like the ghosts of the other champions, or King Rhoam. sorry buddy :-(

i do have a bonus comic the works re: ghost lore that I will hopefully finish. someday so I think that might answer some questions ppl have. and possibly introduce a few more. but on the whole I like to keep whatever's going on here a little ambiguous. like I said in this update's commentary, one part literal and one part metaphorical. maybe two parts metaphorical lol

I think that's all I got for this one!

#directors commentary #cw blood #bonus content #ask #also thank u!!

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unteriors · 5 months ago

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With all due love and respect, most of the interiors you're showing from Piedmont are old (1950s-60s) country houses. Not exactly what I'd think of in terms of real estate neocapitalist dystopia hell. Many of those houses would be absolutely fine with a bit of work. It's definitely a tragic consequence of capitalism that nobody is buying them tho, for sure.

I understand where you're coming from. There are a few things here that irk me a little though - occasionally I'll receive some feedback that touches on similar themes. To start, I'm not really that motivated by titles when it comes to creative projects. There are things in the world, in my own life, in what I see around me, that I find interesting or disturbing or which I have anxieties about, and I put time into exploring them. Almost by accident I've amassed an enormous amount of imagery culled from real estate listings on my PC. I can explain the motivations and ideas behind it, but I'm not very good at wrapping everything up in a neat bow. I've come across a similar thing for another blog I've had for much longer, where people in its audience (or friends and family) would often message me saying that this particular image isn't really an Unplace, and the ambiguity of the title ends up narrowing their perception of the scope of the project (and makes it seem much more superficial - for a similar reason I'm not keen on the concept of liminal spaces, or the word liminal generally). With this blog, I made a conscious decision to use a title that would be broad enough to ward off attempts to pigeonhole it into specific, surface-level interpretations, which would sort of work against and challenge itself (and the viewer).

When I was in art school I was keen on the idea of antimarketing, which extends to branding. Advertising (increasingly over the past half-century) has a way of corroding depth and reducing substance to easily-accessible content guided by broadly-accepted conventions around social norms. I feel like it should only be a thing you deal with yourself as much as you have to, and I try to deadvertise the things I do as much as I can. I feel like these images deadvertise places. I look for real estate imagery which, on the direct, immediate level of their intended purpose, fail miserably (i.e., I do not want to buy this house. I sense lead paint, asbestos. This house may contain a corpse. Stay away). On a secondary level, in addition to selling a product, advertising often sells an idea about the world. With real estate imagery, the idea is much like the one this ask represents these houses as - a way of looking at housing that reduces it to an investment, which views older houses in a state of disrepair as something to be renovated and resold for a profit. This feels particularly myopic and inappropriate when it comes to Italy, a part of the world I've spent time in (though not Piedmont), which has layers and layers of history and human misery in every lived (and abandoned) surface, and which was hit hard by the twentieth century and still seems to be falling apart in many ways. As you pointed out, it's a consequence of the economic system that's currently oppressing Italy (involving years of austerity forced upon it by waves of neoliberal administrations, including within the country and in EU economic policy, against a backdrop of corruption and aggressive anticommunism that the US played a role in) that it has an issue with housing vacancy sitting comfortably alongside the same housing crisis most of us are experiencing (this article goes into a lot of detail about it).

There's the more technical question of how much work would be needed to rehabilitate these places and make them livable - I know in Australia houses that are only fifty or sixty years old often require specialised work by contractors (which our propaganda system that promotes DIY culture and house flipping tends to gloss over). And then, who would put the effort into renovating these places and then living in them? There are parts of Italy with very high unemployment rates, particularly among young people, where people have been leaving for generations. I guess, if someone from a richer country uses the exchange rate to buy and do up a rundown house in a village somewhere and pumps money into the local economy, there are some good sides to that. But I can't get away from the idea that, in our current system, renovating an older house - fixing it up - has the cumulative effect of pricing more people out of housing. I felt bad even about buying a house in my own country - more mortgages mean higher house prices, ultimately. The rot in the economic superstructure feeds into our artistic and conceptual understanding of housing. That creates tensions, between the real, deeper, historically and culturally rich, lived experience of a house, and the fake, greige, airbrushed, negatively-geared, embalmed home-as-investment that's sold to us, and I find those cracks in the surface (peeling paint, if you will) interesting.

This may be getting close to paranoia, but there's also a phenomenon where, if you say anything too negative and controversial, you come to expect that some people will instinctively react by mocking it. This is something I feel instinctively (again, maybe the answer to this lies more in therapy than in looking at the outside world). Often without evidence of their own to demonstrate why what you have said is wrong. It reminds me of a reddit post I saw floating around on tumblr a few years ago, about how the attitude to the world you see in South Park is that, if you complain too much about something (i.e. if you point out that something is wrong), and you demonstrate that you care about that without hiding behind irony, that makes you the problem. You find this all through pop culture from a certain time period (the Simpsons could be just as bad, I also come across this attitude in contemporary art - the laugh react on Facebook feels like its late-stage distillation). It's hard to tell how much people are encoded by it, or if it provides a framework for seeing the world and handling moral issues for people who already held these attitudes. I named this blog Neoliberal Capitalist Real Estate Dystopia Hellscape to weed out those those attitudes and make the people who would ordinarily express them self-conscious. It's getting harder and harder for people to deny that it's not an accurate description, the middle-class psychological bubble has been getting harder to keep insulated for some time now.

#feedback #Italy #written feedback #writing

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yanderes-galore · 6 months ago

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Since Lies of P is on the menu, would you write a concept for Pinocchio/P with a Human Darling? -🐈

Sure! I watched a lore video so I know most of the background (That's... one way to cope, Geppetto....). P's personality is ambiguous just like the game, but he is trying to be human (Totally not for you, definitely....)

I got really into this... So that was fun.

❗️Spoilers For Lies of P Lore❗️

Yandere! Pinocchio/P with Human! Darling

Pairing: Platonic -> Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Overprotective behavior, Jealousy, Violence, Blood, Kidnapping implied, Isolation, Forced kiss, Dubious companionship/Forced relationship.

Pinocchio is certainly a... lost individual throughout the events of the game.

By the time he awakens, he's barely aware of his purpose.

He's clueless to Krat's problems until he encounters them.

There's the puppet frenzy, the disease plaguing humans, the undead....

Pinocchio, due to how he was created and his purpose, is in a strange middle ground.

He's a puppet... but also not.

Due to his unique creation, he's more akin to a human the longer he interacts with his world.

Unlike other puppets, he chooses his actions, he's sympathetic.

So imagine if he meets you, a human, and starts feeling... strange.

The big mechanic in Lies of P is choosing between two paths.

You can either stick to your programming and stay a puppet, or you can aim to be something more... human.

Imagine Pinocchio trying to be more human because he's attached to you?

Maybe you knew Carlos... or maybe you're entirely unrelated?

Either way, you meet the puppet during his quest through Krat.

Humans were rather scattered in the city due to everything going on.

You either perish from sickness... or one of the mechanical monsters in this place.

You had been scraping by the best you could.

However, just when you thought you'd meet your end...

A puppet stepped in, slaying another robotic automaton and preventing it from harming you.

This puppet... was different from the others.

You don't understand it at first... The puppet is oddly quiet as it observes you.

Yet this one speaks... and you can understand it.

It's a bit stilted at first, as if struggling to find its voice.

But you manage to learn its name... P.

It's a simple name, no doubt a nickname.

You deem Pinocchio/P harmless, despite its surprisingly curious gaze.

Something about this puppet seemed more human and controlled than the others.

All other puppets in Krat are frenzied... This one is not.

Your first meetings with the puppet are... mutually curious.

You've never seen a puppet like him.

He felt so human even as he led you to where most other humans were hiding with Sophia.

It's... uncanny, actually.

For now you can tell the difference... but later it's nearly impossible.

Pinocchio, on the other hand, is just as fascinated with you.

As I said before, this would make more sense if you had some sort of connection to Carlos.

Since Pinocchio seems to act on the memories of Carlos... Maybe you were friends like Romeo?

That or you remind him of someone similar and that makes him keep an eye on you.

Pinocchio is a puppet you end up encountering more than you'd think.

The puppet's attachment to you feels... real in a way.

At first you thought the puppet was simply trying to protect you, no doubt some sort of programming that makes it so humans aren't harmed....

The thing is... It isn't anything like that.

This attachment comes entirely from his decisions.

No one is making him follow you around...

He's choosing to.

When Pinocchio isn't out searching for his father, he looks for you.

You could be scouting or staying in Hotel Krat... and still find that mysterious puppet.

You swear he's following you... and maybe he is.

Something in him wants to understand you.

You can read curiosity in his cold gaze... bug you don't want to acknowledge the thought.

This is a puppet... just like the ones out there... yet it's so hard to convince yourself of that.

Each time you see Pinocchio, he's less like a puppet.

You try to tell yourself it's just because you're used to him...

Although, who keeps changing his appearance then?

Pinocchio is gentle with you, always observing you like you're easy to break.

You can't tell what the puppet wants from you....

At the very least you assume friendship... You see that in the way he talks to you, slowly getting more used to using his voice.

He listens to you, mechanical gears clicking as he watches you.

It's like he's fond of you.

You begin to question his motives once he gets bolder.

Whenever you're busy, you'll feel his cold touch tentatively prod at you for attention.

He often sticks around you to see what you do, watching your every move like he's trying to learn from you.

There's times the puppet will mimic you... and other times he acts on his own accord.

You feel like you never get answers when it comes to Pinocchio.

The puppet is determined to talk to you, to learn from you...

He wants to learn everything.

Pinocchio is used to fighting.

Any weapon he uses is often covered in the life blood of whatever beast remains in Krat.

He's a skilled and determined fighter... he never seems to really die as long as his heart is intact.

He has such a pretty face... yet violent tendencies.

Although, with you, there's no trace of that.

With you he's a genuine pretty face, even if it's all to cover up lies.

You begin to worry as Pinocchio becomes more human... and more bold

If you're upset or scared, he sits beside you and attempts to mimic human comfort.

That... That is okay... at least, you try to tell yourself that.

It's when you notice Pinocchio getting more... insistent? Affectionate?

Pinocchio only ever seems to greet you with a hug the more human he becomes.

It's all very strange... You swear you felt him warmer...

Must just be you.

Others comment on his changed appearance, yet you struggle to grapple with the thought.

He's a puppet... but with you he acts too human...

He hugs you, tells you he missed you...

Yet still observes you from a distance, as if cautious about you being around other humans.

Things hit a peak when Pinocchio's actions can no longer be described as friendly.

At first you thought the puppet wanted you as a friend.

Maybe he has a basic view of friendship?

Somehow... unfortunately for you... it appears he's learned new behavior.

During a conversation with Pinocchio in Hotel Krat, you notice the oddly human puppet acting strange.

As you lament about something, you immediately stop in your tracks when Pinocchio leans closer.

You freeze when the puppet is nearly against your side and chest, mysterious eyes watching you.

When the puppet goes in for what you can only assume is a mock kiss, you gently tilt his head away.

You aren't sure if you should even be surprised anymore when Pinocchio gives a confused expression, neck clicking as he tilts his head.

It feels too wrong... too strange... too artificial yet not....

You apologize to the puppet, stating you can't go through with... that.

The puppet merely blinks, but nods with a mumbled agreement.

Unfortunately, you see the puppet trying again once more time passes.

He keeps trying to gain more humanity, to be more human.

Do you not love him because he isn't a human?

He doesn't get it... He recalls memories of him feeling this way to someone like you...

Why aren't you reciprocating?

The puppet tries to become more human to win you over.

By the end of it with long hair in a silver blue tinge... He hopes it's enough.

He wants to feel your warmth, your lips, your touch...

He wants to feel human.

Even if you refuse him as his most human state, perhaps the puppet may just snap.

He's tired of this, he's tried so hard...

He'll never be fully human or chase those memories again...

So he just needs to force it.

At your final rejection, the puppet pins you.

His eyes are cold, body much stronger and sturdier than your own.

With a click, his eyes look to your lips, before you feel cold porcelain lips on your own.

You push on the puppet, it doesn't budge.

The kiss isn't invasive... but it's bruising, a fabrication of the real thing.

By the time Pinocchio pulls away, he's already decided what he wants.

You'll realize he's human enough for you... He just needs to be patient.

You'll love him like you would a real human, won't you?

Even if it means him keeping you away from any other human?

Perhaps Pinocchio just needs to learn new tricks....

You'll love the puppet eventually...

Especially if he makes it so he's all you have.

#yandere lies of p #yandere lies of p x reader #yandere pinocchio #yandere pinocchio x reader #yandere p #yandere p x reader

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

Text

How to Endure Ardor:

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel teaches you how to love him.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post outbreak; QZ Joel Miller; I'm saying this, but the setting is sort of ambiguous anyways, Stream of consciousness, Character Study, Alternating POVs; PIV sex; The troubles and toils of breaking up and then making up with a fucked up old man; Uncaring Joel; Mentions of painful sex; Toxic relationships or situationships or whatever you want to call it; I think I'm addicted to the idea of a Joel who'll never love you and I should probably see a doctor about it

A/N: she remembers how to write, who'd of thought!

Word Count: 1.3K

Read on AO3

This is a lesson:

“Tell me again,” she says, and it’s a begging.

A begging like what? Something that carries shame and smallness in the shape of it. Stay a little longer. It humiliates him for the wretchedness it pulls from him. Joel, please. Seeping blood the color of her supplication. Please, she says, please. And who else says please to him anymore? Who asks him for anything anymore but her? The only ones who ever had are long past and gone, and he can’t even barely remember they were ever really there to ask anything of him to begin with—can’t remember what it feels like to owe someone something and want to give it to them in a way that will actually make him.

Tell me what again? That I want you? That I’ll stay? That I love you? I’ll come back, he says instead, the only thing he can promise and keep. And he wonders if it humiliates her too, the way he lies, the way he runs, the way he swears, the way he always comes back and comes back but never returns with the things she needs. A humiliation just like it is a begging.

The thing they have: it’s strange, fickle, honest in its lies, very, very ugly. An ugliness that is shocking in a world gone to rot already. The sky doesn’t shine anymore and they bask in it.

But also, and, the thing they have: it’s physical, saving.

This is obvious too, even if only to them.

He slides inside and you’re what? Hot and wet and slick, and—yes, a thing like a dream, but still only a thing. Something to have, something close to desire, but not quite, more like biological want. Woman turned possession. In his mind this is an excuse, a reason, a begetting. Like, what—like what? Like when you want a thing very badly but it is very bad for you, and you need to make up any excuse to have it, lie and lie and lie—to your mother, your best friend, the mirror—a begetting like that. Easy to understand only if you’ve been there.

It started simple, it started like nothing, it started like the first time you meet someone and you know they’ll matter, you know they’ll mean something. So it started like what? Like a lie.

Shifts at the QZ, long and toiling and reminders of the sort of life that died in an outbreak of monsters, only if for how unlike that past it was. Humans or fungus or—

—men who hurt—you, men who refuse your love, Joel Miller.

The crutch of your age, of you being weaker or smaller or in need, him being easily felled, wooed, easily conquered by something young and given without a try because there was never the opportunity for trying before.

Now, it is like this: you take my cock and you take my come and you take my nothing, and I give so little and yet you still find a way to take and take and take, leech of a girl, dream of a girl, hungry. And with the excuse that it’s only in a way you contrive for your own self. But in the end, what does that make you? What do I make you into?

These are the things he asks himself.

Perhaps she goes away for a time, tries the route of escape, of variety. But when she inevitably comes back because addiction is riddled always in the same sorts of ways: did you try different bodies? Did you try different flavors and sounds? Did you look for me in all of them?

The answer is usually yes.

At reunion’s turn: he rolls her over to face her, Joel, damp and panting and trying to be something—perhaps better, more honest—after a season of variety and honest attempts and shut eyes. He’s so hard for her, always is.

Again: he slides inside and you’re what? His, undeniably. Not yours. Something to want but not desire because it’s too romantic a notion, and yes, there’s a difference even if he can’t put into words what that difference specifically is. Body and heart, perhaps, definitions that differ between disparate anatomical parts or levels of deniability.

Nothing either of you have ever been able to put into words when lust and love aren’t things you can even say out loud for the shame of them, even if they exist within said same anatomy.

You come together, the season passed, the separation passed but still kept at hand for the next time the closeness becomes too much.

“Tell me again,” she says, and this time he remembers what she’s asking for.

“I fucking missed you, baby. Missed this pussy.” Because he can’t say it’s her heart he missed. Because Joel Miller does not have honesty in his arsenal.

He spreads you wide, knee to shoulder so it hurts and pulls, so it’ll be sore and reminding tomorrow. The slap of his pelvis against the back of your thighs is obscene, wet and lewd, a string of girl cum keeping you connected, such togetherness, curve of your ass to the root of his cock—the two of you are together again.

You know what I thought, when I tried to go away, you say. He doesn’t want to know, but he doesn't tell you so either, only slides in again, the mouth of your womb right there, threatening. I’m never going to feel like this again, and I hate how certainly I know that. He wonders if the unsaid part is that he’s the recipient of that feeling, the hate.

He wonders if the pinch inside him is hurt. He wonders if the throb is love.

All he says because he can’t say the rest is, I missed you, I missed you, and if he could look himself in the mirror—something that’s twenty years past lost—he’d ask: are you alright? Just tell me you’re okay. And it sounds in your own voice and with your own care and the feel of your own warmth. Is there anything I can do?

Other times, he sees himself through your own eyes, and then he knows for certain that the throb is love

So he makes up for lost time, hard—and if it was a thing he knew how to be— loving. Mouth to cunt first, primed and soft and begging, making you come again and then another once more, then inside of you. Slow, splitting you open, red cunt like a wound, balls slapping wet, pulling out to watch the gape of the space he’s carved for himself. His cock is so hard and missing you something desperate. And he’s reminded of what it is to really miss something in a way he hadn’t been in twenty years of apocalypse, he’s forced to realized that it’s been so long since he’d had something to love that he’d not realized the feeling of missing that long past someone had gone away, only faint memory remained.

Violent, is what this makes him after that realization—thrusts turning hard and punishing. How dare you give yourself to me? How dare you then take yourself away? You come around him again, the gift of your orgasm. How dare you not be able to accept the little I’m able to give when I’m trying so desperately fucking hard to give you even just this?

He fucks you mean, he fucks you in the way of a man who doesnt know how to say the things he needs to say, in a way that’s confusing, that could make a less discerning woman feel only the hurt.

But then again, you know him.

Fucks you in a way that is a little bit like love.

And so, amidst all of it, there is an honesty amongst the lies. A truth unspoken that they both know—I’ll come back because I need you, because you’re the only one who can give me the things I'm not strong enough to ask for out loud.

You’re not sure which of the two of you is the one saying it.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

#vic fic #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader

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twilightofthesandwiches · 6 days ago

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you talked before about how it’s ambiguous how much tenna and spamton knew about kris’ situation with the soul, and i wanna point out how when the darkners in castle town use boss, it’s usually ambiguous whether they’re referring to kris or us. But one of the jigsaw joes called the player boss. Like it’s pretty clear he’s not referring to kris but rather us specifically. As a separate entity from them. Do they know??What?? Its weird

It is very weird!... and not the first time I am thinking about how weird that is, I actually have a post/Answered Ask about it from all the way back from when Chapter 2 came out lol

There hasn't been many new revelations about the Weirdness Of All of That so I'll start by plagiarizing my past self

Oh there is DEFOS something Funky going on with the Castle Town Darkners and “Boss”. For once, even when they are addressing Kris - and most of the time it seems that they are addressing Kris…

Why is Kris the ‘Boss’, and not Ralsei - the supposed 'Prince’ of Castle Town?? And if it’s about Kris being a Lightner, why doesn’t Susie get the same treatment? Add to that the fact that Castle Town is named “[PLAYERNAME]Town”. And that the Save Point calls it “My Castle Town”, while the End-of-Chapter-1 Check Point calls Kris’ room “Your Room”

(note from the future to add that the Save Point in Kris' Room in Chapter 4 calls it "Kris's Room", again reinforcing the point that person for whom Castle Town belongs to is not Kris.)

And then Jigsaw Joe adressing 'Boss’ in the second person, and than addressing Kris in third person…

It does seem like the Player - or whatever entity we represent in-game - is the real Boss of Castle Town. Kris is just our 'figurehead’ (and Ralsei’s just a figurehead to the figurehead). The interesting thing is that most Darkners don’t seem fully aware of that distinction. Like in that screenshot with Swatch I’ve posted above, Swatch reprimands 'Boss’ for something Kris did of their own volition. So it seems like some (most?) Darkners don’t actually distinguish between Kris Dreemurr and their real 'Boss’. So the fact that there is one Darkner in Castle Town who seems totally aware of the fact Kris and Boss are separate entities, and that this Darkner is friggin’ Jigsaw Joe is…. Well, that certainly raises some possibilities!

Like I said, I don't think much has changed since then. The one extra detail we have is that Elnina and Lanino never seem to talk about 'Boss', and only over refer to Kris.

But I dunno if that means they are making a distinction between "Boss" and Kris as much as it means that they do think of Boss and Kris as the same person, but just see themselves as being on first-person basis with their "Boss".

Plus... I mean, we do still have to ask ourselves where did the name [PLAYERNAME]Town come from in the first place, and how do all the Darkners know that it's "Kris" (and not Susie) that they need to address as Boss.

I think it's possible that the Grand Fountain and Castle Town were originally created for the Player on some level, so any Darkner animated by it is just sort of... imparted with some amount of knowledge? understanding? a compulsion? Something that tells them that we are their 'Boss' now. And for the Darkners who don't understand who's really puling the strings they understand it as the 'Boss' actually being our Vessel/Cage, Kris.

But that still leaves the question of why the hell Jigsaw Joe is the only Castle Town Darkner who makes an active distinction between "Boss" and Kris... but why? Is it some sort of Tutorial Character Power that he shares with Ralsei? Why doesn't he bring it up? Kris seems to be currently interested in keeping their Possession a secret from Susie, so.... doesn't it bother them?

I... guess that as a Darkner who's used to live under the whims of both Lightners and the capricious royalty of Card Castle he might just not understand the horror/importance of the situation. He just thinks that if his Boss is nice to him that makes it enough to make them a Boss worth following, Unknowable Time Demon Possessing a Teen or not.

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tharizt · 2 months ago

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i'd say interstellar song contest falls somewhere in between the zygon inversion and kerblam on similarly iffy politics.

actually let's compare this in more depth. because both the zygon inversion and kerblam feature revolutionaries who are presented as extremists who have "gone too far". but i still love the former story and hate the latter.

kerblam has charlie. inversion has bonnie. both are explicitly framed as rebels who want to overturn what they perceive as oppression. and both are framed as extremists whose ideologies are quickly dismissed as irrational and dangerous.

neither story meaningfully explores the root cause of rebellion. charlie’s automation-focused ideology is undercut while bonnie’s grievances are left vague or incoherent (treated like cattle how, bonnie? the story doesn't care enough to ask).

kerblam ends with vague reforms and no structural change. judy may propose the organisation becomes majority-organics, but there’s no guarantee anyone will listen. all of the worker characters die. the two bosses survive.

the background worker characters get one month off but only paid for two weeks. and instead of the horrible minimum-wage jobs being automated, they'll just hire more human workers to inflict further misery upon.

meanwhile; inversion sees the doctor enforce a fragile truce that resets the same failed peace repeatedly. kate’s memory has apparently been wiped multiple times. people keep getting slaughtered. each time, the doctor resets it to more or less how it was at the start.

both feature climaxes with the doctor confronting the antagonist; in both, the terrorist gets an appeal to emotion and neither seriously proposes alternatives to the existing system. radicalism is treated as inherently flawed or harmful, not a potential source of systemic change.

so, where do they differ?

first of all: kerblam addresses real-world issues like amazon-style capitalism, automation, and labor exploitation head-on. inversion uses metaphor.

zygons can never truly be about isis or refugees or imperialist wars or dysphoria, but it can orbit that territory. which lends the story to ambiguity, multiple possible readings, and prioritising a more coherent moral purpose.

inversion follows a clear moral arc with bonnie’s redemption paralleling the doctor’s trauma. she’s equated with him in the time war, framing her feelings as valid. she just needs to find a non-lethal third way, which ends up being stepping into the role of the missing osgood.

charlie gets no such treatment. he is killed off with no emotional payoff, no redemption, and framed as a generational pariah. he’s radicalised by being a millennial.

kerblam is cynical. it lacks any emotional sincerity. it undermines its initial setup with a confused message. but inversion is constructed with nuance, ambiguity, and clear intent by harness and moffat the entire way through with a coherent, optimistic moral.

it also helps that inversion is a major narrative climax in series 9, led by capaldi and coleman, who are the two greatest lead actors in the history of the show. they both deliver all-time nuanced and emotionally devastating portrayals.

so; the main difference comes down to empathy. the zygon inversion has deep empathy for bonnie even if it doesn't have an interest in her specific motives. it has deep empathy for the issues it explores. it has deep empathy for its audience. moffat (+harness) prioritizes empathy.

kerblam has no empathy for charlie and randomly kills him off in a blaze of fire. it has no empathy for the issues it explores and actively inflicts further misery on even more workers. and chibnall (+ mctighe) seems to despise the disaffected youth that is its own audience.

so, where does the interstellar song contest land? well, sort of in between.

there's nothing as explicitly fascist as "the systems aren’t the problem", it does have empathy for the oppressed, and it does end its story with giving the group a voice at eurovision.

naturally; none of this is enough. the story is still about how one individual person of a genocided group went "too far for his good cause" instead of being a story about the oppression.

the doctor still tortures this "evil freedom fighter" but does nothing about the corporation that is behind their oppression (if he's even aware of it).

and the liberal solution to the problem doesn't imply that the material reality of their home planet has actually changed at all, so the killing will likely just continue.

it's a horrible move to write this sort of story in this current political climate. rtd's entire modern doctor who era is deeply cynical in how it tries to faux-appeal to its liberal audience.

but there's just enough wiggle room there that i think you can place it between the zygon inversion and kerblam on this specific axis. moffat's attempt isn't as leftist as it should be, but it's still the best shot so far. let's hope future doctor who stories do better.

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shigayokagayama · 11 months ago

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What are the biggest losses between the manga and anime? I just finished watching mp100 and I'm curious what the manga has!

ok biggest losses are kind of hard to define because like. anime and manga are two inherently different mediums and there are a good amount of cuts that improve pacing and then a good amount of cuts that people sort of argue over the merit of so im just going to go for biggest differences. i would also highly recommend reading the manga just because it is a pretty different experience tonally along with the minor plot differences and cut scenes + theres a bunch of omakes that both flesh out characters that dont get too much focus and have some really good bits in them. putting the rest of this post under a cut bc i ramble

mogami arc

this one is kind of inescapable i feel like but the anime version of the mogami arc had a LOT of things trimmed for a couple different reasons. season 2 already got an extra episode in order to do the fire scene as a cliffhanger so with the way things shook out the director had to choose between a. cutting a bunch of stuff out of separation arc to make it one episode so mogami arc couid stay three episode or b. cutting a bunch of stuff out of mogami arc so separation arc could stay two episodes. imo they made the right choice, whats even the point of adapting mob psycho if you dont get confession arc right, but some of the cuts to mogami arc will be dearly missed and others will be fought over to the end of time. cuts include:

minori being established as a brat in a video everyones shown and the video being part of how reigen deduces shes possessed (reigen deducing her possession in the manga is generally just a lot better done and after you read the manga the scene in the anime feels so awkward because you know whats missing

the psychics deciding to band together to beat this little girl to death to save themselves and shinra stepping between them to protect her and getting utterly thrashed, not by mogami, but his fellow psychics

reigen trying to convince mob to leave without him and call for help while he distracts him which leads to this

the general mogamiland section lasting a lot longer and being more brutal (notably the stray cat mob feeds getting killed in front of him)

mob getting fucking torn to pieces by spirits during the fight instead of ambiguously dying offscreen

generally would recommend if nothing else reading the manga version of this arc and confession arc because i feel like these are the only two where you lose like. a significant amount of the story and themes from the cuts. speaking of....

2. WHY THE FUCK DID THEY CUT THIS I WILL BE MAD UNTIL I DIE

maybe its just because i reread this arc on its own probably 50 times before the anime came out but this is the only arc where the cuts actively piss me off because there is absolutely no reason they had to do it. they cut a bunch of important shit, left in things that didnt need to be there, and added scenes that contribute literally nothing to the overall point. if they just did any one of those things or combo of two of those things i wouldnt be as mad but it feels like they put a bunch of filler in then speedran the actual story

cut #1 that pisses me off: HOMOPHOBIA?????

THERE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A HEART IN HIS EYE. WHY DID THEY NOT INCLUDE THIS. THIS IS THE CULMINATION OF TERUS ARC. THIS IS HIM SEEING THE PERSON HE HAS IDOLIZED AND DEIFIED IN HIS HEAD AT THEIR LOWEST AND STILL CHOOSING TO LOVE HIM, AND THROUGH THIS HE IS CAPABLE OF BEING LOVED EVEN THOUGH HES NOT PERFECT BECAUSE NO ONE IS. WHY WOULD YOU CUT THIS?

cut #2 I NEED WHOEVER CUT THE DIALOGUE FROM THE FIRST PANEL IN PRISON

the lack of inclusion of the first panels dialogue along with the cuts to the mob and shigeo conversation (WHICH WE WILL GET TO) make me think the person who adapted this arc fundamentally misunderstood what was happening. this line. is. THE POINT. THIS ISNT SOME SEPARATE SCARY THING. THIS IS MOB. HE IS CHOOSING TO DO THIS BECAUSE HE IS SCARED AND ANGRY AND HURT BUT HE IS IN CONTROL OF HIS ACTIONS AND ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

cut #3 HE DOESNT WANT TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR HIS ACTIONS

this entire conversation is so good and i was looking forward to watching it voice acted for so long and its just. gone. for me the "i am shigeo kageyama who are you" reveal felt like a gut punch because the opening being "i knew i would be needed" made me go "oh hes like possessed or his powers are sentient or something" and this conversation was the slow unraveling of my view of these as two separate people and instead as a scared, traumatized teenager who has convinced himself that the parts of himself he hates are something else outside of his control instead of an intrinsic part of who he is because if he's convinced that the parts of him that are able to feel desire and frustration and anger and malice are him then he'll lose all these relationships he's worked so hard to cultivate as his perfect, non confrontational self. and of course that isnt true. all his friends and loved ones are making their way to the center of a damn hurricane because they see he's in distress and want to help him. but he cant see that so he pushes them away. ugh. mob. protagonist of all time.

cut #4 WHY WOULD YOU CHANGE THE COMPOSITION OF THIS I CAN LITERALLY SEE HOW THIS WOULD BE ANIMATED IN MY MINDS EYE W

can you imagine how beautiful this would be in motion. just. god.

cut #5 HE WAS TALKING OUT LOUD. REIGEN HEARD ALL THIS

cut #6 the bowling arc

so the scene where reigen takes his shoes off is supposed to be a lot more solemn bc like. taking your shoes off before killing yourself is a trope in japanese media (ive heard it started in media and bled over into real life but i might have it backwards?). reigen knew he was probably going to die. anyway i cant take this scene seriously because of this edit

the bowling arc.

cut #7 WAAAAAAAAAAAA

WAAAAAAAAAAAA *sniff* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

cut #8 homophobia again

rip pensive fruity tea sip

cut #9 mob threw the cake directly in reigens face on purpose

i literally experienced every stage of grief realizing this got changed. why. its so perfect. why would you change this.

3. World Domination arc

so WD arc is in a very interesting place where it had a lot of scenes cut but unlike the other two most of the cut content youre like. yea probably best not to include that. ill start with the good content that got cut then go into the weird content

serizawa got his power drained by toichiro. i am quite sad this scene didnt make it in because its sorta heartbreaking

teru fighting off the claw assassin is shown and we see that teru can both make shadow clones AND hold a barrier while attacking, he seems to be the only esper with this ability!

the reason dimple could tell mob's family was alive is that there was no sense of grudge at the house which would have been left behind by people passing in a violent manner

mob briefly goes unconscious during the start of the toichiro fight and dimple possesses him and says "shit"

dimple possessing mob shoots shibata with a gun

we get mukai lore.

it doesnt make any sense and just raises more questions but we get it.

toichiro has a team of telepaths to recap where everyone is because this arc took an entire calender year to update

literally everyone shows up to fight shimazaki. i cannot stress enough how many people show up to fight shimazaki. it would be faster to list espers who dont show up to fight shimazaki

the middle school delinquents show up and start fighting the claw grunts literally completely out of no where and this is never brought up or referenced ever again

when mob and ritsu get home ritsu says all their stuff is in boxes and they need to hurry and redecorate the house before their parents get home which implies that shou packed the entire households worth of belongings into boxes and hid it somewhere before lighting their house on fire which is such a funny mental image that i cant even be mad at it. loony toons ass plot point.

4. other random interesting cut things

takenaka is just generally more of a bitch during alien arc. "ah i think they took him" remains one of the funniest goddamn panels in the manga

peak

alien arc overall is a lot funnier in the manga, i have a slight preference for the manga version just bc theres a lot of really good bits that didnt make it to anime but the anime version is so heartfelt and nostalgic it makes me happy

between omakes and small things that got cut or changed for the anime teru just feels way more fleshed out in the manga. like. anime teru is a completely different person. its hard to explain if youve never read it.

the all girls school part originally went right before the ghost family stuff and was the beginning of mob's existential crisis about why spirits and people get different treatment but tbh it works well where it is i just wish it werent. like that.

the scene where ritsu and teru shake hands was teru draining ritsus power which he seems to have learned to do from encountering ???%

teru.

thats all i can think of off the top of my head, im sure ill realize i forgot something some time after posting this but. yeah. read the manga its good

#mp100 #mob psycho 100

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starmocha · 2 months ago

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So, this mass hysteria surrounding the recent update for the new chapters, "Death and Rebirth" has spread like wildfire and there's been far too many misinformation being spread around.

For the past few days, I've been addressing questions on my personal blog, but perhaps this information would be helpful for others seeking clarifications.

TL;DR: The main story update is just that: an update. Zayne is not being removed from the game. Zayne will continue to be part of future banners just as normal. Do not fall for the mass panic.

Below the cut will be a more thorough explanation about how the game works as well as covering some related questions I've had people asked me in the last few days since the recent main story update for "Death and Rebirth."

Gonna address the elephant in the room first:

Zayne is not leaving the game.

He will continue to be a love interest in the game. How people even reached this conclusion is beyond my understanding. He will continue to appear in future banners just as normal. He will be part of event stories just as normal. Nothing is changing. Our snowman is staying with us!

Main Story Update

There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding about how the main story works.

The main story is a huge plot that takes place over a long period of time and affects all off the characters. This is common in otome games like Love and Deepspace, and especially another game from the same company, Mr Love: Queen's Choice (MLQC).

The recent update released four new chapters, subtitled as "Death and Rebirth". It is still a part of all the previous stories that have been told so far, starting with the first section, "Under Deepspace" and following through to Sylus' section, "Long-Awaited Revelry," the three individual story branches (grouped under "Prologue To Tomorrow"), and Caleb's homecoming, "Homecoming Wings."

These are all part of one larger ongoing story, split into subsections with individual chapters. Additional chapters are added over a period of time, and the plot will progress at this same pacing.

The story is in no way ending. Not even close. From a business standpoint alone, the longer a story is, the longer a game can be profitable.

The aforementioned game MLQC has recently celebrated its sixth anniversary, and to coincide with that celebration, new chapters to its main story were released to coincide with the event. Now, unlike LADS, MLQC have regular main story updates throughout the year, and it's been going strong for six years now with no sign of stopping.

In truth, it is very unlikely for the main story to ever end. At most, an arc may reach its conclusion, but that just invites a new story arc to take its place. As of now, though, LADS is nowhere close to reaching its conclusion. If anything, the recent chapter update have revealed many new plot points to be explored in future chapters.

While both Sylus and Zayne have recently been showcased, it is not the end of their appearances. They will continue to be seen as more of the story develops, but for now, our next sight would be to circle back to Xavier and Rafayel, with Caleb possibly on the horizon as well.

Main Story vs. Story Branches

There is a difference between a main story update and story branches update that may seem confusing to some.

Main story update would involve a plot that affects all characters and the story as a whole. Just think of the main story as a tree constantly growing bigger.

While the story branches would be akin to actual tree branches. It will tell a smaller story that is connected to the main, but the central themes would follow a singular character. For example, Zayne's story branch, "Thorns Under the Moon" follows Zayne only, and the conflict he deals with (his nightmares/Dawnbreaker) does not affect the other characters directly or impact them in any way.

Memory Cards (4* and 5*)

The exact timeline for the memory cards are intentionally ambiguous, especially the early cards to allow the writers the freedom to work on the main story, which will have subtle romantic implications. The memory cards are meant to show a more intimate (or growing intimate) relationship with the LIs.

This is a similar format LADS is borrowing from MLQC (reiterating the two games are part of the same company).

When reading the memory cards, it is intended for you to assume that it takes place post-canon from the main story with MC having chosen that specific LI as her partner. (you are not dating all five men at once.......unless you want to headcanon it that way who is stopping you lbr /hj)

For example, if you are reading a Zayne memory, then it follows a path/timeline where MC is pursuing a relationship with Zayne and has no romantic relationship with the other male characters.

The main story would only subtly hint at the possibility of romantic feelings with each LI, but it wouldn't be obvious unless you are reading the 4* or 5* cards (which at that point means you are "choosing" that LI's "route").

One thing to keep in mind as you are reading the main story: MC is not romantically involved with any of the men, nor does she have any explicit romantic feelings for them.

If it makes it easier to understand, then consider the main story as one long slow burn. The 4* and 5* memories would be what would happen after the story ends (typically, but there are exceptions with some cards [mainly thinking of Caleb's cards right now]).

For most of the current memories, everything can be considered canon except for the Catch-22 cards, which all clearly take place in an alternate universe (AU). A good way to identify if it's an AU or not is if the characters all have completely new backstories, which in this case, they do.

Final Words

I have done my best to highlight some common concerns brought to my attention recently, but if there's anything else that is still troubling you, please feel free to reach out and I will do my best to answer and also edit this post with updated info.

Likewise, if you feel I am misinformed about anything, or would like me to add additional points, please also feel free to reach out. The goal here is to reassure everyone that the game is in no way facing any drastic changes or losing a beloved character. I understand for many, this may be their first time playing an otome game, so the gameplay is very unfamiliar and confusing. Let's try to help our fellow players and stop the spread of misinformation going around. 🙏

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace caleb #@_@ i'm sorry if i'm missing anything obvious #i hope this is helpful to anyone still concerned #pls feel free to reach out to me with additional questions or offer additional info that you may think is necessary

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lucimaaie · 1 month ago

Text

save the day ✧.* spiderwoman au

pairings - ellie williams x fem!reader

summary - with you missing and the city in shambles, ellie's pushed to her limits.

warnings - whew, it's been a bit i feel like coryxkenshin, angst but fluff at the end i promise, sort of happy ending, dunno if this makes sense but this is my first time w/ a series this long so bare with me, mostly proofread, r and ellie are apart most of it, but they get together i promise, 6k word count, its the end but not the end hopefully

playlist | spidey masterlist

Being on the other end of the ambiguous waiting game you often experienced wasn’t fun. Ellie had spent half the hour hoping you’d come back at any moment, free of frustration. The other half was spent coming up with the ideas of where you could be instead of here with her. Maybe you stopped by that sub shop you both liked or a random cafe on the way home. None of her ideas seemed to soothe her growing anxiety..

But you said you’d come back and Ellie trusted you. That was never the problem.

She had tried to sit still and trust in your return, but five minutes later, she was on her phone, checking your location. No biggie, she was just being a normal–as normal as she could be–concerned girlfriend.

She let out a sigh of relief, seeing your contact photo right above your apartment. Good, you’d be getting home soon enough to talk this out. She'd wait.

Soon the idea of you coming through the door seemed delusional so she checked again. Still close. What, were you just sitting outside? She opened the window, peeking her head out to look down and..still nothing. Her brows furrowed as she looked back inside like the solution was in the house.

The exhaustion was starting to set in and you still weren't home.

Still, knowing you were out there, angry didn't sit right with her. She tugged on a jacket and flicked all the lights off, getting ready to leave. She was at the door when she scanned the room. Her eyes stopped at the small reflective rectangle. Of course, you'd left without a thought to your phone or anything.

You could probably handle yourself and find your way back, but that fact was nothing to Ellie. She needed to see you and quell the nagging feeling in her gut—that something was wrong.

The dark had become familiar in the past few hours. That and the circulating ache in your head. You had no idea how long you had been out for but you could tell they had moved you since then. No matter how much craziness New York experienced, it still hadn't become the place for spontaneous kidnappings. Okay, well, at least not done by men with winged-like jetpacks and glowing tails attached on their arms.

It had become hard to move anything with the tight pressure around your wrists and ankles. The rope roughened your skin as you shifted and squirmed to loosen them. It didn't help that they hadn't bothered with a chair. You were bound on some cold industrial floor while they whispered in the corner.

With no success on the restraints, you finally opened your eyes and looked around. The room was a small garage with work desks and lamps packed into the space. Each desk was cluttered with varying sizes of unfinished tech, though almost all had some type of glowing compartment to them. That was the only light source in the garage along with the small amount the far away city provided.

You turned your head to the whispering bodies. Past one of their heads you could see mechanical wings compacted to a jetpack looking size, sitting on an identical workstation holding every other part of his technically intricate costume. The man who was floating in the sky was unmasked, talking to his partner like this was a regular Friday night.

You must've been looking far too long that he noticed. A small gasp escaped you as you shrunk down and took in a shaky breath, trying to find the strength not to panic.

"And she rises." His smug voice made your blood boil. His steps were heavy in the dank, humid garage. You hesitantly craned your head up to get a good look at him.

The man wasn’t familiar one bit with older, scorned features you’d never seen before. He looked even more villainous with a brown leather jacket and matching gloves. Would he leave you in the river, rid himself of the blame or were you just jumping to conclusions? “What do you want?”

“Golden question, hun.” He squatted down in front of you, shadows clinging to his features.

“Yeah it’d be nice if you answered it,” You squirmed against the wall you were posted up against, the pressure of the rope burning into your wrists. As you realize his eyes were glued to your struggle, you stopped. "Seriously. Money? Attention?" The only response was only dignified with a chuckle.

"You want to know my whole supervillain plan, do you?" He rose to his full height, turning around and waving away his goons. You met each of their curious looks as they all filed out the room on command. Who the hell was this guy? The mystery man braced himself against one of the work desks and focused back on you.

"You seem like the monologue type."

"Funny." He discarded his gloves on the table behind him. "But it's not you I'm concerned about. It's your girlfriend—she cooperates and everything will work out just fine for ya." He said coolly.

He had the wrong girl. He had to be some unknown mob boss that had mistaken you for somebody else. The thought that Ellie's..profession, for lack of a better word, would come back on you wasn't new, but you had figured you had some time to get used to the fact before it actually affected you. At least be able to prepare. You didn't want to walk around New York defenseless with your only plan being calling said superhero.

"My girlfriend?"

The man scoffed, exaggerating his irritation at your playing dumb. "Spiderwoman?" He said. "What, you think I don't know? That I just picked you up for fun?" He pushed off the table and walked towards you in slow steps. "You can calm down. I just want to talk. For now." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small watch. "Guess we'll have to draw her out. "

Ellie had become worried sick the longer you had taken to get home. You were likely lost and upset, and she had no way to get to you other than hitting the streets and hoping for the best. So, she did just that.

She thought she was organized in the way she checked all your favorite spots, but there was still no sign of you. No one had seen you. She was starting to get a little more than worried, but she couldn't panic. That'd be no help to you, wherever you were. Though, that didn't mean she could stop the nerves working their way through her limbs.

She had tried deep breathing, counting, and it still hadn't gone anywhere. Just when she had started to accept the feeling wouldn't go away till you found you, it got stronger. Stronger in the way that every hair on her body stood up straight. Her ears wouldn't stop hurting due to a thin, high-pitched ringing that let her know something deeper was wrong. Wherever you were, you weren't safe.

Sudden vibration in her pocket made her shoulders hunch before she realized it was her phone. Her heart stuttered in its already abnormal pattern when saw your mom's contact cover her screen. Regardless, she answered within a second. "Hello? Mrs— No, everything's fine, I just wanted to check up on you." She inwardly cringed at her failed attempt to calm your mother. Losing her girlfriend, lying to said girlfriend’s parents–her track record was just getting better and better, wasn’t it?

“She’s not still upset, is she?”

“Upset?” Ellie’s walking slowed as she waited for a response on the other line. Had you gone to see your parents? Her heart couldn’t help but sink at the thought of running you away this far.

“Yes, well, we had a bit of a disagreement earlier today.”

“An argument? What about?”

“Just—“ Ellie flinched as a loud boom struck her ears. The whole street scrambled to hide behind blaring cars. Your mother’s worried words became mere mumbles as Ellie laid her eyes on the source. Your apartment building, surrounded in flames coming out of the middle floor.

“Ellie? Hello? Are you okay—“

“I’m alright, listen I..I gotta go.” She hung up without waiting for a response, something she’d sheepishly apologize for later. The ringing in her ears was almost unbearable as she made her way through the crowds of panicked and nosy bystanders.

The added vibration in her pocket only overstimulated her more. She hastily declined and broke out into a sprint, quickly turning each corner back to your shared home. She knew you weren’t in there, but..what if you were? What if you’d wandered back home and she’d just missed you?

She was nearly thinking about crushing her phone when she heard whirring just above her head. It was from a small device, not bigger than a tennis ball yet it was loud. Too loud. Everything was.

“Ignoring me won’t make me go away.” It spoke?

Ellie scanned the alley. There was no logical source of the sound except this tiny hovering device. She’d never heard the voice before but she could recognize the work. The pulsing glow of blue in the center of the sphere was a familiar indicator.

“You did this.” She said in realization. She hadn’t gone as far as she wished she’d gotten in her investigation, but she could see the signs. Only recently learning about the businessman named Adrian Toomes had before he was shut down by none other than Tony Stark. As far as she was concerned, he had the motive, but then again many wannabes popped out the shadows after alien tech hit the black market. She wasn’t going to point her finger at some random man if she wasn’t sure. Look where second-guessing herself had put her.

“Surprise surprise, spidey. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

“You just blew up an apartment building. So, no. No, I couldn’t.” She barely spared the device another glance as she continued in pursuit to the burning building. She couldn’t deal with supervillains, not now. This couldn’t be happening. Not when you were still missing. Eventually, she broke down and suited up–in the privacy of another alley of course– before swinging right into the smoky floor.

While the mask protected her from the smoke, nothing could prepare her for the heat surrounding her. She could only imagine what your neighbors were feeling if they were still in here, surviving somehow. Please, still be alive.

Ellie worked quickly, moving past collapsed dressers and cabinets to usher civilians to the safety of the firefighters below. All throughout she held back the urge to make the search for you her first and only priority. She tried not to think of the worst. The absolute worst being..she couldn’t stand to think about it, losing you.

She searched what was left of your apartment. It was as lonely as she left it, only now your things were charred if not ash. The sight made her surge with fury. Fury that she had ran you away so far she couldn’t find you. That your safe place was a thing of the past, swallowed up by the fire that was no doubt the doing of the man that had already caused so much chaos in your lives.

None of this was an accident: You going missing, this fire. It was the consequences of digging too deep. She swung onto the side of the building, eyes squinted in the search for that small, speaking device again. “Toomes!” She called out. No response. Now, he wanted to go silent? She pulled herself onto the roof, using the height to her advantage. “You wanted my attention! You got it.”

Her shoulders tensed as that familiar whirring filled the space behind her. She turned around to face him, met with almost a dozen of the devices she had seen before.

“Took you long enough. Let’s have a civilized talk.”

“Would be nice if you would actually be here to face me instead of hiding behind robots.” She remarked coldly, her firsts clenched. Civilians, helicopters, first responders all became background noise to her as she zeroed in Toomes’ mascots.

“I know, I know, but I gotta keep your girlfriend company, don’t I?” Ellie only tensed further at the confirmation. Some of her anger had started to give way to the same anxiety from before.

“Yeah, there you go. It’s all clicking isn’t it?”

“What do you want?” She asked bluntly.

“Well, I want you to drop your little Inspector Gadget investigation, but it doesn’t look like that’s in the cards right now. So, we’ll play a game.” Toomes’ voice became louder as more bots joined the swarm in front of her.

“I don’t have time for games.”

“Oh, but if you want your girl back, you do.”

Ellie couldn’t find it in her to respond with anything, her mind wandering to you. She wondered how long he had you. Where you were, if you were hurt. Maybe it was the smoke, but it started to feel like there was a barrier in her lungs, stopping her from taking any air in at all. It didn’t help that her heart was stuck between almost jumping out of her chest and stopping completely. “You’re sick.” She choked out.

“I’m efficient, there’s a difference. At least my hero complex won’t have me running around New York City.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wha–”

“Whoops, couldn’t wait.” His words were muffled by the sound of simultaneous rumbles around her. She had no idea where to look first. Buildings across the city were groaning with the threat of crumbling. She could barely process the man’s sudden absence–well he was never really here, was he?– before she was forced to jump into action. She could only hope you weren’t in any of these burning buildings.

The sound of whispers and sparse footsteps had become white noise to you. You were never left alone, accompanied by a duo of men that got switched out every few hours or so for whatever reason. The man in the brown leather jacket had been gone for an hour since his conversation with Ellie.

He let you listen in as if this was some typical business call and not your girlfriend being tested by a sadistic “businessman” as he called himself. You had tried to take the opportunity to let her know you were okay, but your attempts were quickly muffled. Gagged then silenced with duct tape. His goons hadn’t taken another look at you since.

The dark garage had been occasionally lit by another skyscraper starting its way down. You scooted over, trying to get a glimpse of the damage only to be met with the familiar burn on your wrists. Why’d they have to use rope? Every shift and movement scraped at your skin deeper and deeper, bringing a muffled hiss from your lips.

The sound must’ve caught one of the men’s attention because now he was squatted next to you, tightening your restraints. “Stop moving.” He grumbled.

The added pressure only angered you more. Without much thought, you dug your nails into his arm with all the strength you could muster up, hoping for an opening to escape. He pulled back with a hiss and held his arm. “Shit!” He hissed, delivering a swift, hard kick to your stomach, making you double over and let out a strangled cry.

“What’d she do?” The other man questioned, rushing towards the angered man. Their words became unclear as your stomach pulsed. You had been more focused on trying not to cry than anticipating what would come next. You were sure they were coming up with ways to punish you without Toomes knowing. As soon as you braced yourself for another blow, your head was yanked back by your hair and your vision covered by thick cloth.

The loss of sight was even more anxiety inducing than the addition of footsteps into the mix of ambient noise. That was until the pressure on your wrist eased and you were pulled up to your feet, deeper into the garage you assumed until the hot air hit your face. It was a brief moment of freedom, ended by being shoved into the back of a truck. The stuffiness did nothing to soothe the pit in your stomach. Each bump and groove in the road was unfamiliar. They could be taking you to the edge of town and you wouldn’t know. Your pride didn’t like it, but Ellie seemed like your only hope at this point.

Ellie was swamped with more rescuing than one woman could handle. The police were doing their best to care for injured and usher civilians away from each hearth, but with so many attacks in one city, it was hard to anticipate.

Her suit, though protective, had become something of a human incinerator as she swung from floor to floor in each building. Toomes had chosen some of the tallest properties in the city, it seemed. That’s what it seemed like until she was once again surprised and pulled from one major wreck to a smaller incident in the suburbs. She was being dragged around the city, being played with.

None of this made sense, for him to torment not only her but the city like this. No other explanation other than being evil. Or that she had pushed him too hard.

She wasn’t the only one stuck in the ruins and worried about her people. She wasn’t the only one distraught, worried sick about you. She couldn’t pinpoint where exactly she saw your dad, but he looked more frazzled than she’d ever seen him. It stung to think about how your mother was handling this. Especially after she stopped answering her phone.

Ellie needed to fix this. Now.

She nearly collapsed, landing for what seemed like the hundredth time. The little girl in her arms ran to her mother as soon as her feet hit the ground. She hardly caught herself, watching as numerous firefighters tried to wrangle the fire now that civilians were out. Maybe it was a foolish thing to do, but she thought just for a moment, she’d rest before she passed out from exhaustion.

“Fight’s not over yet.” She flinched at the gruff voice, then she recognized the sound: your father. She had known the man long enough to know this was closest she was getting to a check in.

“Captain.” Her voice was rough as she pushed off the wall and back onto her feet. She resisted the urge to pull off her mask for fresh air. The last thing she needed in this moment of chaos was for him to know it was her behind the mask.

“I’m assuming you know somethin’ about why the city’s on fire?” He asked. The remaining officers filed into their cars at the firm command of your father through the walkie. Once they were off the scene he turned his attention to Ellie again. Waiting for another explanation as to why the New York was involved in her and whichever supervillain of the week’s spat.

She cleared her throat in an effort to make it unrecognizable. “I don’t think hearing the answer would make this..any better. Sir.” Great answer.

Her response was met with an unimpressed sigh and deeper furrow in his brows. She was too tired to feel embarrassed. This whole thing was a mess. The only thing she could clearly feel was her stomach—bubbling and stirring, anxiety eating away at her insides.

Her moment to rest was over as a screech burdened her ears. The feedback from syncing radios and walkies broadcasted the voice of the very man she’d like to drive her fists into. Everyone on the scene tensed with fear for what would happen next.

“Alright, let’s get this over with, spider. While it has been fun watching you play whack-a-mole, I don’t have all day.” His nonchalance was infuriating.

“What do you want?”

“Jesus, be patient, will ya?” His taunting was followed with enough shuffling to make her uneasy. At least more than she already was. “I’ll leave you with one more parting gift.” Echoing footsteps. He was somewhere empty. A warehouse, maybe? “Captain. Spidey. Your girl.” Her brows furrowed, heart jumping like it wanted to crawl out of her chest at the mention of you.

“Dad?” Your voice was broken, probably from screaming–she hoped not. If he had laid even a finger on you, her morals would have to go out the window. She looked to your father. There was no missing the way his features softened, filled with fear and outrage all at the same time.

His fingers were quick to grab his radio. “Honey? Are you okay? Can you tell me where you are–”

“Uh-uh. You gotta find her first. That’s half the battle, y’know.” Toomes voice was firmer, less playful than before. There was an unsettling quality to his coldness than the taunts. Unpredictable, she never knew what to expect. What his plans were for you, where he had you locked up. She felt powerless.

Before your dad could muster up a reply, she grabbed his radio. “Stop playing and tell us where the hell she is.”

“Fine. I’ll be nice and give you a hint. Let’s say she’s back to where it..all started.” He was hardly finished with his words when the sound cut out. Leaving her with nearly enough information to get to you before he inevitably cuts up again.

“Fuck.” She cursed, pressing her hands on either side of her head. She had to think quickly. Where it all started, where it all started. Her and Toomes? No, he wasn’t the type for some big showdown. He would’ve showed up already, when she least expected it. No, this was about you and her. He already knew who you were, it wasn’t a far fetched idea. He was holding her identity in his pocket. Where it all started..

“Mayfield.” She blurted. Your father was too busy conspiring with his officers to hear her. Ellie bristled. She knew better than anyone where you were. She’d be damned if she lost you because of stubborn, up-their-ass officers. “Mayfield.” She repeated louder, walking closer to the conversing group.

“What?” Your father questioned.

“She’s at Mayfield Community College. It’s a few streets over.” Her answer was hasty as she was already shooting a web and swinging away. They’d just have to catch up.

There hadn’t been much movement since you were left alone. Each turn and shake in the truck scrambled your ideas of where you could be going. You thought maybe a warehouse like the movies but there was no echo where you were. Then, an office came to mind. Somewhere high up where the layers would crumble beneath and on top of you. To say the least none of these thoughts calmed you.

No sane person could be calm throughout this process. You were shoved around and guided for what seemed like a mile. Then your hands tied together with the same frayed rope before. They’d forgoed the blindfold, which was both a relief and terrifying. That of all places you could be brought to for your possible death, it was this place. It was personal for this guy. Whatever he wanted.

The silence had started to get worrying. You thought that was the worst part until unexpected bellows sounded. Your senses were flooded with the suffocating smell of smoke and burning plastic and the crackling hiss of fire starting up, just like with the others.

Of course you hadn’t been waiting to die the whole time. Getting the ropes off your wrists had proved to be not only uncomfortable but useless with the tight knot against your already chafed skin. You had, however, been able to separate yourself from the chair.

They had left you in one of the lab rooms. The chair was so high you couldn’t help but tumble to the floor, falling face first into smoke. You squirmed to get up quickly, pushing yourself onto your feet.

Stood up, it was easier to see the orange light in the hallway peeking from the windows and under the door. Shit, that smoke. You rushed to the door, snatching a white coat off the hooks and packing it under the door. That’d have to work for now.

You scanned the room for anything and found nothing. Windows high to the ceiling. Tables clean of anything you could use. For a moment, it seemed hopeless. It was, if you would let it be.

No, you had too much to lose. Your ma, pa..Ellie. You weren’t going to lose what you had to some sociopath. Before you could psych yourself out of it, you were dragging a chair over to the counter. It was taller than the counter, still shorter than the window. How the hell were you gonna do this?

The frustration was quick to set in, making you uselessly kick the chair over. Your chest heaved as you fruitlessly attempted to force the restraints off your wrist. Skin had broken over again, barely healed from before.

It burned, though not worse than the fire would, a feeling you were supposed to be feeling in a few minutes. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t die, not like this. The last words you ever spoke to your parents and your lover being angry and fed up.

Okay, another try then. Think, think, think. Anything.

You couldn’t do anything with tied hands. Dragging another chair over to the cabinet, you then rammed it into the glass cabinet you glanced at earlier, and again until it fractured. The piece of glass was small but sharp, cutting into your palm as you sawed back and forth into the weaved material around your wrist. It hurt like hell to a girl that hadn’t even broken a bone, but you kept going.

Just when an ounce of progress seemed to set in, another thrum sounded off. Louder than the others, closer and it shook the room, making you drop the glass.

Here you were, an out of breath, helpless bleeding mess trying to save yourself with no plan. Wherever Ellie was, she needed to be here soon. Please hurry, Els..

Ellie hadn’t loved college, but there was a devastating quality to seeing it become a blazing disaster. Even worse to think that you were in there somewhere and she had no idea where exactly.

She had no hesitations on heading into the fire, rushing out civilians–some of them her classmates–onto the sidelines. The crew would be here soon, hopefully. Sighs of relief and thank you’s usually nice to hear fell on deaf ears. She knew she shouldn’t be this one track minded when lives were at stake, but she had cleared building after building and there was no sign of where that psycho had left you.

All efforts of trying to stay calm were gone. She was getting tired as she stubbornly pushed through fallen debris. The science building has proved to be a challenge, flames fanning much hotter by the combination of gas and who knows how many chemicals there were. It was a ticking time bomb, she knew that. But the theater, the main building–everywhere else was all cleared.

You were here. You had to be here. She just needed to get you before..Ellie flinched at the feeling of a warm hand on her shoulder. She was half-way ready to take on your father before he revealed himself.

“It’s just me. It’s me.” He said, voice oddly sincere compared to the stern voice she had grown to remember. Like calming a frightened animal. He was sullen, weighed by the possibility that you were already gone. That this was just beating a dead horse.

She allowed herself a shaky breath, before turning back to the raging inferno at the end of the hall.

“Everyone’s out.”

“No,” She denied quickly. “She’s..She’s in here somewhere. One of these rooms o-or..” She was too drained to come out with an answer to placate her growing panic. She couldn’t stop. Soon her limbs would give out and the opportunity to find you would be lost.

“A sweep’s already been done as far as we can go. This place is volatile. We need to go.” His words were cold. Like this was any other case and while she knew it was deeper than he showed, she wasn’t in the right mind to be too considerate right now. She pulled her shoulder from his grip.

“I said no.” The temporary surge in anger gave her the strength to push past two fallen pillars, moving them to the side. She couldn’t help but fume further. “She’s still in here. I’m finding her.” She said intently.

As if to challenge her stubborn denials, a piece of ceiling came down. She didn’t care, shoving the last piece of the banister to the side. “Agh,” A sharp spasm in her arm made her stop.

“You’re tired and you’re beat up. You can’t find anyone if you’re already dead.” Your father pulled her back, forcing her to rest even for just ten seconds. “This ain’t something you have to do for me.”

Ellie was too exhausted to fight being guided to the ground. Her limbs screamed for rest as she touched the ground, even while her mind was against it. “Yes! I do. She’s my—“ She cut herself off with a frustrated huff. It was all too much— the secrets, the sneaking around keeping her from you. She had taken her eye off you and her life and hadn’t known she was throwing away everything. “She has to be here.”

“And how do you know that?” Your father sunk down next to her, silencing his radio.

“I just do.”

“You just happen to know where my daughter might be? When I don’t.” He sounded skeptical.

Ellie pulled her head from the wall. She was exhausted. Of pushing you away. Of lying. Letting what was supposed to be this amazing thing come between you. Either she wasn’t in her right mind or it really was time to tell the truth. She snatched off her mask before she could really decide. Her first whiff of cloudy air made her cough harshly.

The captain had rushed to her side before he was able to realize the pesky Spiderwoman he was used to seeing, and criticizing, was unmasked. That her auburn strands sticking up in all places were familiar. “No,” He said slowly. He had thought many things of Ellie in order to fill in the blanks—A liar, possibly a fraud. Never a hero. Especially the same one who saved his daughter's life. He had given her much more respect than he did before, but he wasn’t fully for a masked vigilante he knew nothing about. Guess he knew more than he thought.

“I can..” She grunted as she pushed herself up. “explain everything after we find her. After.” She liked the sound of it. The certainty. If she could just hold on to that feeling a little longer.

As her firm features came into view, it became clear to your father that there was no use in convincing her against it. Nor in doubting her. “After.”

Their brief moment of understanding was cut short by a rumble deeper in the hallway. It shook the ground until the destruction, cutting off the path she was previously making. “Shit.”

“Those damn things.” The Captain grumbled. “We need—“

“You have to get out of here.” Ellie was already pulling on her mask.

“What? No,” The captain pulled out his gun. “It’ll kill her if you end up gone.”

“And it’ll be worse if she loses her dad. Go, sir. Please.” She pleaded hastily.

She watched the internal fight going on in your dad’s mind, a sigh of slight relief leaving her body when he hesitantly retreated. She turned to the flames in front of her. She really hoped you weren’t in there surrounded by the heat and fear she wasn’t coming for you. Even if it killed her, she’d find you.

The heat crept under her suit as she scaled the hallway’s safe spots but she endured it. Several labs turned up empty. She pressed herself against the wall, just dodging the jagged edge of a broken light fixture. Or so she thought she did until she felt hot air lick the fresh tear in her suit and her skin. She hollered as her side stung sharply. It was too humid to notice the blood dripping down. She leaned her forehead against the wall as she let out a trembling breath. No stopping, keep pushing. None of the pain will matter when you find her.

The fixture was able to get one more jab in on her arm before she grabbed it and tore it down. This all distracted her from the revelation that she was at the last lab. If you weren’t in there, you weren’t here. And she would be wrong and possibly too late. But she couldn’t be.

She pushed through the door, wood thudding heavily against the floor. Her eyes had little a journey before they landed on you, frantic yet determined to escape the lab cabinet on top of you. The wall it was previously against was wrecked, pieces having already joined the pile of broken beakers. Flames from the other threatened to spread through the opening.

Ellie rushed over to you. Her heart sank at your flinching before you realized it was her. You’d never done that at her touch. She called your name softly, slipping off her mask. She pushed the cabinet off of you and brushed the shards of glass away from you.

“Ellie.” You barely made it through your words without jumping into her arms. Damn the ache in your legs. “I didn’t know if you would—“

She held back a pained hiss. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” The words were breathless, desperate apologies mumbled into your hair. She tried to hold back tears, but everything she was feeling boiling beneath her skin had started coming out, her body quivering against yours. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long time.” She had no idea how tight she was holding you and you sure as hell weren’t going to tell her to lighten up.

It was a pain pulling back, but you both needed to get out before the place blew. She’d have to hold you longer later. She hastily wiped her face. “We have to go. You okay to walk?”

You nodded before you could attempt to push yourself onto your feet. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, Bug.” She guided you into her arms. “Put this over your nose.” She said, giving you her mask.

The school had becoming a living, breathing inferno every second you spent escaping. Ellie dodged unexpected ceiling fractures and roaring flares all with you in her arms. Once you made sure her mask was back on, she was running to the medics though it was hard to let them wheel you away. That didn’t mean she took her eyes off you. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Weeks went by.

Cuts sealed and aches faded, making the only reminder being the charred decrepit structures throughout the city and check in’s with doctors. Efforts for reconstruction were well under way along with numerous fundraising events for the city.

Your old apartment was just another construction site on your way to your parents’ house. They had been quick to offer—practically demand, with you and Ellie’s injuries—and you weren’t in the position to turn them down. Ellie wasn't either.

Rest had been hard to come by for her, even harder considering the bastard responsible had disappeared. The city was still discombobulated and she still hadn’t found the man. He had used the chaos to fly under the radar, used you–the thought had her fuming and unsettled. It took everything in her not to throw herself back into work. She needed to stick around, help the city clean up the mess she dragged it into, be there for you.

The process was anything but sunshine and rainbows. She came home drained just like the one before, but relieved to see you nonetheless. And your family, they weren't hers, yet the feeling of the full home wasn't nothing. They treated her like her presence was nothing out of the ordinary.

Your father, despite knowing her secret, had come to appreciate her presence. Both as herself and the.. other guy. Girl? Woman? You get the point.

It was nice to have people in her corner again. She just hoped she wouldn't mess it up.

But as she did after every fight, or rather life-threatening experience, she had to return to her roots for a little.

Ellie still wasn't sure she should've brought you here. It was no doubt depressing and you had already had your fair sure of the mood recently. As always you insisted. "You said you'd never let me out of your sight. Your words, verbatim." You said, both genuine and teasing.

So, she let you pick the flowers and here you were placing them carefully in front of Joel's grave. She sighed as she eased down onto the ground, her fingers interlocking with yours as you did the same.

"You didn't have to come with me." She had said the same thing a million times already. She just couldn't help it.

"Ellie, what did I say?" You admonished gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"If you say it again.."

"I'll say it till you get it." You snickered softly.

God, you had no idea how much she had missed that sound. How she had missed making you smile. She had unintentionally brought this chaos into your life and somehow you still wanted her.

"Seriously, it's not just you anymore.” Yours were as gentle as your touch on her shoulders.

"I know." She said instinctively.

"Do you?" Her eyes flickered to you almost immediately, eyes widening a little at the callout. She knew she had been acting like a free agent. She neglected you and she knew that. It'd take a long while for the guilt to go away, if it could. “Cause you promised we’d do things together and we ended up apart. I’m not just here for the easy stuff.”

"I know, I swear I do." Her brows furrowed, trying to keep her emotions in check. It was all still there: the anxiety and paranoia, the guilt most of all. "You and me." A firm promise.

She looked to the gravestone before her, her father’s name carved boldly. And it still hurt. She hoped he’d be proud of what she was doing. She hadn’t exactly been content with her losses lately, but she swore she was trying to do the right thing. Her powers had become a tool to help people instead an isolating one used for revenge.

She looked at you and her ache was dulled and replaced with warmth.

Her life was a rollercoaster since she was bit by that spider. She had taken on this big responsibility and fell and got up more times than she could count. She had done it alone and she didn’t have to anymore.

“You and me.”

thank you for reading!

#ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie the last of us #ellie willams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x y/n #ellie x y/n #ellie x you #spiderwoman au

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