#sunday suspense new

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Keeping a suspense file gives you superpowers

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Two decades ago, I was part of a group of nerds who got really interested in how each other managed to do what we did. The effort was kicked off by Danny O'Brien, who called it "Lifehacking" and I played a small role in getting that term popularized:

https://craphound.com/lifehacksetcon04.txt

While we were all devoted to sharing tips and tricks from our own lives, many of us converged on an outside expert, David Allen, and his bestselling book "Getting Things Done" (GTD, to those in the know):

https://gettingthingsdone.com/

GTD is a collection of relatively simple tactics for coping with, prioritizing, and organizing the things you want to do. Many of the methods relate to organizing your own projects, using a handful of context-based to-do lists (e.g. a list of things to do at the office, at home, while waiting in line, etc). These lists consist of simple tasks. Those tasks are, in turn, derived from another list, of "projects" – things that require more than one task, which can be anything from planning dinner to writing a novel to helping your kid apply to university.

The point of all this list-making isn't to do everything on the lists. While these lists do help you remember what to do next, what they're really good for is deciding what not to do – at all. The promise of GTD is that it will help you consciously choose not to do some of the things you set out to accomplish. This is in contrast to how most of us operate: we have a bunch of things we want to do, and we end up doing the things that are easiest, or at top of mind, even if they're not the most important things.

GTD recognizes that you can be very "productive" (in the sense of getting many things done) and still not do the things that you really wanted to do. You know what this is like: you finish a Sunday with an organized sock-drawer, all your pennies neatly rolled, the trash-can in your car emptied…and no work at all on that novel you're hoping to write.

You can't do everything, but you can control what you don't do, rather than just defaulting into completing a string of trivial, meaningless tasks and leaving the big stuff on the sidelines. Organizing your own tasks and projects is a hugely powerful habit, and one that's made a world of difference to my personal and professional life.

But while good to-do lists can take you very far in life, they have a hard limit: other people. Almost every ambitious thing you want to do involves someone else's contribution. Even the most solitary of projects can be derailed if your tax accountant misses a key email and you end up getting audited or paying a huge penalty.

That's where the other kind of GTD list comes in: the list of things you're waiting for from other people. I used to be assiduous in maintaining this list, but then the pandemic struck and no one was meeting any of their commitments, and I just gave up on it, and never went back…until about a month ago. Returning to these lists (they're sometimes called "suspense files") made me realize how many of the problems – some hugely consequential – in my life could have been avoided if I'd just gone back to this habit earlier.

My suspense file is literally just some lines partway down a text file that lives on my desktop called todo.txt that has all my to-dos as well. Here's some sample entries from my suspense file:

WAITING EMAIL Sean about ENSHITTIIFCATION manuscript deadline 10/24/24 WAITING EMAIL Russ about missing royalty statement 10/12/24 WAITING EMAIL Alice about Christmas vacation hotel 10/8/24 10/20/24 WAITING EMAIL Ted about Sacramento event 8/12/24 9/5/24 10/5/24 10/20/24

WAITING CALL LA County about mosquito abatement 10/25/24 WAITING CALL School attendance officer about London trip 10/18/24

WAITING MONEY EFF reimbusement for taxi to staff retreat $34.98 10/7/24

WAITING SHIPMENT New Neal Stephenson novel from Bookshop.org 10/23/24

This is as simple as things could possibly be! I literally just type "WAITING," then a space, then the category of thing I'm waiting for, then a few specifics, then the date. When I follow up on an item, I add the date of the followup to the end of the line. If I get some details that I might need to reference later (say, a tracking code for a shipment, or a date for an event I'm trying to organize), I'll add that, too, as it comes up. Creating a new entry on this list takes 10-25 seconds. When someone gets back to me, I just delete that line.

That is literally it.

Every day, or sometimes a couple of times a day, I will just run my eyes up and down this list and see if there's anything that's unreasonably overdue, and then I'll send a reminder or make a followup call. In the example above, you can see that I've been chasing Ted about Sacramento for months now (this is a fake entry – no plans to go to Sacto at the moment, sorry):

WAITING EMAIL Ted about Sacramento event 8/12/24 9/5/24 10/5/24 10/20/24

So now I've emailed Ted four times. Maybe my email's going to his spam, and so I could try emailing a friend of Ted and ask them to check whether he's getting my messages. But maybe Ted's trying to send me a message here – he's just not interested in doing the event after all. Or maybe Ted is available, but he's so snowed under that he's in danger of fumbling it, and I need to bring in some help if I want it to happen.

All of these are possibilities, and the fact that I'm tracking this means that I now get to make an active decision: cancel the gig or double down on making sure it happens. Without this list, the gig would just die by default, forgotten by both of us. Maybe that's OK, but I can't tell you how many times I've run into someone who said, "Dammit, I just remembered I was supposed to email you about getting that thing done and I dropped the ball. Shit! I really was looking forward to that. Is it too late now?" Often it is too late. Even if it's not, the work of picking up the pieces and starting over is much more than just following through on the original plan.

Restarting my suspense file made me realize how many of the (often expensive or painful) fumbles I've had since the pandemic were the result of me not noticing that someone else hadn't gotten back to me. In essence, a suspense file is a way for me to manage other people's to-do lists.

Let me unpack that. By "managing other people's to-do lists," I don't mean that I'm deciding for other people what they will and won't do (that would be both weird and gross). I mean that I'm making sure that if someone else fails to do something we were planning together, it's because they decided not to do it, not because they forgot. As GTD teaches us, the real point of a to-do list isn't just helping us remember what to do – it's helping us choose what we're not going to do.

This is not an imposition, it's a kindness. The point of a suspense file isn't to nag others into living up to their commitments, it's to form a network of support among collaborators where we all help one another make those conscious choices about what we're not going to do, rather than having the stuff we really value slip away because we forgot about it.

I have frequent collaborators whom I know to be incapable of juggling too many things at once, and my suspense file has helped me hone my sense of when it would be appropriate to ask them if they want to do something together and when to leave them be. The suspense file helps me dial in how much I rely on each person in my life (relying on someone isn't the same as valuing them – and indeed, one way to value someone is to only rely on them for things they're able to do, rather than putting them in a position of feeling bad for failing you).

Lifehacking gets a bad rap, and justifiably so. Many of the tips that traffick as "lifehacks" are trivial or stupid or both. What's more, too much lifehacking can paint you into a corner where you've hacked any flexibility out of your life:

https://locusmag.com/2017/11/cory-doctorow-how-to-do-everything-lifehacking-considered-harmful/

But ever since Danny coined the term "lifehack," back in 2004, I've been cultivating daily habits that have let me live the life I wanted to live, accomplishing the things I wanted to accomplish. I figured out how to turn daily writing into a habit and now I've written more than 30 books:

https://www.locusmag.com/Features/2009/01/cory-doctorow-writing-in-age-of.html

A daily habit of opening a huge, ever-tweaked collection of tabs has made me smarter about the news, helped me keep tabs on my friends, helped me find fraudsters who were trying to steal my identity, and ensured that all those Kickstarter rewards and other long-delayed, erratic shipments didn't slip through the cracks:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/25/today-in-tabs/#unfucked-rota

Daily habits are superpowers. Once something is a habit, you get it for free. GTD turns on decomposing big, daunting projects into bite-sized, trackable tasks. I have a bunch of spaces around the house – my office, my closet, the junk sheds down the side of the house, our tiki bar – that I used to clean out once or twice a year. Each one was all-day, sweaty, dirty job, and for most of the year, all of those spaces were a dusty, disorganized mess.

A month ago, I added a new daily task: spend five minutes cleaning one space. I did the bar first, and after two weeks, I'd taken down every tchotchke and bottle and polished it, reorganizing the undercounter spaces where things pile up:

https://www.flickr.com/search/?user_id=37996580417%40N01&sort=date-taken-desc&text=tiki+bar&view_all=1

Now I'm working through my office. Ever day, I'm dusting a bookshelf and combing through it for discards to stick in our Little Free Library. Takes less than five minutes most day, and I'll be done in about three weeks, when I'll move on to my closet, then the side of the house, and then back to the bar. A daily short break where I get away from my computer and make my living and working environments nicer is a wonderful habit to cultivate.

I'm 53 years old now. I was 33 when I started following Getting Things Done. In that time, I've gotten a lot done, but what's even more relevant is that I didn't get a ton of things done – things that I consciously chose not to abandon. Figuring out what you want to do, and then keeping it on track – in manageable, healthy, daily rhythms that bring along the other people you rely on – may not be the whole secret to a fulfilled life, but it's certainly a part of it.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/26/one-weird-trick/#todo.txt

[jymwahuwu]

Interactive Story:

If you transformed into a bird and were discovered by Sunday

cw: birdcage description, yandere not mentioned in this chapter but possible in the future. please read with caution.

reader setting: You and Sunday have always been political enemies and rivals. You argue with each other in The Family meetings.

previous part

→ "try to become human again"

Like a rising thermometer, anger, anger, anger- the red liquid inside you is boiling, occupying, desperately searching for clues and ways to become human again, but finding none. As soon as you open your eyes, you turn into a little bird, after all. The world becomes wider in the bird's eyes. Perhaps awareness is the point? You are preoccupied with the idea of ​​"becoming human"…

But in Sunday's eyes, you are just a motionless bird, as if you are concentrating on something. There is an inexplicable cuteness. "Aren't you going to resist?" The leader of the Oak family wrapped his fingers around your wings, avoiding your wounds, and rubbed your round belly through the wings. If a bird's cheeks could heat up with shyness, you'd be hot right now. What a bastard! He can even harass a small bird! You pecked his fingers in retaliation, but your legs were off the ground the next second.

Sunday held you in his hands as he walked, observing you. You struggled to flap your wings all the way and chirped like he was committing a crime robbing birds. You'd think people would stop Sunday's "criminal" behavior, but other members of The Family were just watching quietly, smiling mysteriously, whispering to each other.

What a moral decline!

You huffed and fell silent. As if the young leader understood the meaning of your actions, a burst of laughter rose from his throat, and he rubbed your little head again. He… is he laughing at you? Lord Xipe, do you see this? He is truly insufferable!

This is not the first time you have entered Sunday's office, but every time before you ran in and quarreled with him before running out. This is the first time you notice the layout of his office. The smell of juniper berries. The cabinets are filled with heavy, thick books. And the light from the sun shining through the colored windows. He opened one of the lockers. You stared at him with your little eyes like a hawk, and you were relieved to find that the bottle of strange blue liquid was a potion.

"Be good, don't move."

Sunday skillfully stopped the bleeding on your wound and then applied the medicine. You bit your mouth, the wings of your wings swaying. Chirping in anguish. He took a new potion and sprayed it on the injured area to finish.

"…There, there. It's okay now…"

You hummed softly inwardly and looked away.

Knock- knock.

"Come in." Sunday responded with his usual elegant smile. You absentmindedly looked to see who it was, but you were so frightened that your pupils trembled.

That's your subordinate, your assistant.

"Mr. Sunday." He gasped with some embarrassment and anxiety. "They- they're missing. It's been over 20 system hours without any trace."

"No response even to private contacts?" The representative of The Family raised his eyelids at this moment, with a hint of disappointment and gloom in his tone. "I thought you were the person they trusted most."

"No - no, Mr. Sunday, you know that my allegiance is always only to you." He put his hand on his chest and bent towards him. It’s like the world has turned into an obscure suspense novel. You are stunned.

He glanced at him twice more, with unknown emotions rolling in his eyes, before giving the order. "Go search immediately and inform the Bloodhound Family that a senior member of the family is missing. We cannot let them encounter any danger."

"Yes." Silence returned to the room. You were still in shock at being betrayed by your subordinates, and you didn't even notice that Sunday had opened the cage.

You are locked up, in a birdcage.

He observes you from outside the cage. He asked. It's like asking for your opinion-

"You stay here now, okay?"

[wonies-cheeks]

The Book That Knows | l.hs

Synopsis: A day where reality and fiction collide, a seemingly normal day for you spirals into terror when you discover a mysterious book in your home. The book eerily mirrors your life, with each page recounting events happening in real time.

Genre: Ghostface!Heeseung, Psychological Horror, Thriller, Supernatural Fiction, Suspense

W/C: 3.9k

Warnings: Violence, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Manipulation, Implied Threat of Death, Betrayal, Cursing

A/N: Sorry it took me a long time to post something new. University has been stressing me out and i just never had time to just sit down and write. Don't be afraid to send me requests, I'll make sure to try and answer all of them. And i will try to post often. I hope you enjoy!

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*

It was a dreary Sunday afternoon when you first heard about Ghost Face on the news. You weren't paying much attention at first, mindlessly flipping channels as the rain poured against your window. But something about the chilling report on the television caught your ear, making you pause. 

The anchor’s voice, calm but laced with tension, described a recent string of brutal murders happening in a nearby town. The killer —known only by the alias "Ghost Face"— had yet to be caught. The mask they wore, white with hollow eyes and a twisted, grinning mouth, had become infamous. What made it all the more terrifying was how they blended into the victims' lives, often posing as a friend, a neighbor, someone familiar — until it was too late. 

You shivered, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV, trying to shake off the eerie feeling creeping up your spine. It was just a story, after all, a terrible tragedy happening somewhere else to someone else. You were safe, tucked away in your cozy home, far from the horrors playing out on the screen. 

You had found an old, tattered novel at a second-hand shop the day before — a horror story with a faded cover, its title barely legible: “The Silent Watcher”. 

 Something about it had drawn you in, though you couldn’t quite place why. The pages smelled of old paper and mystery, and you had a hunch it was the type of book that would get under your skin. 

You settled into your favorite chair, the rain tapping softly against the windows, and began to read. 

The story started off simple enough: a small town, an outsider moving into a creaky, old house, and a series of strange occurrences. The protagonist, a person with no name yet, began to notice odd things happening around them—a door that wouldn’t stay shut, a strange knocking at night, the sensation of being watched. 

As you turned the pages, the descriptions of the protagonist’s life became unsettlingly familiar. They lived alone, much like you. Their house had the same creaking floorboards, the same slightly peeling wallpaper, the same view of the park across the street. You told yourself it was just a coincidence. Old houses often shared these traits, and plenty of horror novels leaned into these types of clichés. 

But as you continued, the details grew more specific. The way the house’s front door stuck if you didn’t pull it hard enough. The exact placement of the furniture in the living room. The faint stain on the ceiling in the kitchen that no amount of scrubbing could remove. Every description matched your own home. 

You put the book down, your heart starting to race. The rain outside had picked up, and the house was filled with that eerie quiet that comes after dusk. You stood up, walking to the window, peering out at the empty street. The park, with its benches and swings swaying in the wind, looked peaceful enough, but you couldn’t shake the creeping feeling crawling up your spine. 

Shaking off the unease, you sat back down and opened the book again. Maybe it was just a trick your mind was playing on you. Maybe you were getting too absorbed in the story. You continued reading, your fingers trembling slightly as you turned the page. 

The protagonist was now feeling watched, just like you had when you first noticed the strange coincidences. They began to hear footsteps at night, soft taps in the hallway that made their pulse quicken. You could feel your own breath quicken as you read, the words pulling you deeper into the mystery. 

Then came the part that made your blood run cold. 

The protagonist, unnamed until now, was given a name—a name that was yours. 

You stared at the page, blinking, convinced you were seeing things. The name was printed clearly. Your name. It couldn’t be. Your mind whirled, trying to rationalize. Maybe it was some bizarre fluke, or maybe your mind was playing tricks on you, inserting your own name into the story because of how eerily familiar it had become. 

You flipped back a few pages, scanning for when the name first appeared, but it wasn’t there. Your name hadn’t been mentioned earlier in the book. Yet now, it was all over the page, as if it had always been there. 

Heart pounding, you turned to the next chapter. The protagonist—you—was walking through their home, checking the doors, locking the windows, making sure everything was secure. As they—you—moved through the house, the words began to describe something new. Something you hadn’t done yet. 

You froze. 

The book was describing your exact movements, as though it was watching you. " You glance at the clock. It’s 7:14. You place the book down on the side table and stand up, walking to the kitchen to make sure the back door is locked."

Your eyes darted to the clock. It was 7:14. 

The book was reading you. Your movements, your thoughts, every detail of your life was being played out in the story, one sentence ahead of your actions. 

Suddenly, you felt like you weren’t alone. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, thicker, like something was watching, waiting. You stood up, the book slipping from your hands, and glanced toward the hallway. The faint tapping, the sound of footsteps, echoed from the dark. 

You turned to the book, still lying open on the chair. You didn’t want to, but you had to know. With trembling hands, you picked it back up. 

"You walk slowly to the hallway, your heart racing. You know there’s something there. You know that, just beyond the corner, it waits for you."

The tapping grew louder. A steady rhythm, like fingers drumming against the wall. 

"Your breath quickens as you step closer. You don’t want to look, but you can’t stop yourself. You turn the corner, and there it is. The watcher. It has been waiting for you all along."

You took a step forward, the hallway looming before you, every nerve in your body screaming at you to stop. But you couldn’t. The book was in your hands, and you had to know how it ended. 

"The watcher is not human. It never was. Its eyes are fixed on you, unblinking, never leaving, always waiting. And now, you are part of its story. Forever."

You stopped at the edge of the hallway, unable to move. The footsteps had stopped. The house was deathly silent. 

Slowly, you closed the book, but you knew it wasn’t over. 

You stood frozen at the edge of the hallway, the eerie silence wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket. The book, now tightly gripped in your trembling hands, felt heavier than before, like it was something alive—breathing, watching, waiting. The words haunted you, the image of the watcher lurking just beyond the corner. But there was something else now, a new presence that made your skin prickle with a strange mix of fear and anticipation. 

A soft knock echoed through the house. Your heart skipped a beat.  

Someone was at the door. 

For a split second, you wondered if you should even answer it. Every instinct screamed that something was wrong. But the knocking came again, more insistent this time, pulling you out of your paralysis. 

You moved toward the door, the sound of your footsteps unnervingly loud in the stillness. When you finally reached it, you hesitated for a moment, your hand hovering over the handle. The knock came again, this time more insistent, followed by a familiar voice. 

"Hey, it’s me, Heeseung. You there?" 

Relief washed over you. Heeseung was your next-door neighbor, and more than that, your best friend. He was the first one who introduced himself to you once you moved here. He kept you company and helped you out when things got tough. He was the first one that felt like home. If anyone could calm you down from this bizarre, twisted night, it was him. You hurriedly reached the door knob, almost too eagerly, and opened it. 

 Heeseung stood there with his trademark grin, a hoodie pulled over his head and a baseball cap barely concealing his messy black hair that stuck to his forehead. He looked like he had just come from the rain, drops glistening on his clothes. His warm brown eyes scanned your face with an intensity you couldn’t place. For a moment, the world outside seemed to fade into a blur of rain and shadows. It was like the space around him didn’t quite exist, only he did—sharp and real, with an energy that made your pulse quicken.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice steady, almost too calm for the moment. “I saw your light was still on and thought I’d check in. You okay?” 

You blinked, unsure of what to say. The words felt heavy on your tongue. "What.... What are you doing here?" 

The man smiled softly, though there was something about it that made your heart race, a mix of warmth and something else —something unreadable. “I’m your best friend dumbass, your neighbour too,” he said simply. “But you seemed like you needed someone right now.” Something about his presence put you slightly at ease, as though he was meant to be there. Like he'd always been there. 

But your mind snapped back to the book, the horror of what you’d just read, and the watcher that had been described waiting in the shadows. Could this be another coincidence? Or was he something more—something tied to the terrifying mystery unfolding around you? 

"Hey," he said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation, "you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." He wiped the water from his face, his eyes scanning the room like he was searching for something. For a moment, he glanced at the book on the table, its pages slightly open, but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. 

You almost laughed at how close to the truth that was. "Yeah, I just—" You hesitated, glancing back at the book sitting on the armchair. "I was reading this creepy book, and it’s messing with my head. It… feels too real, Heeseung." 

He raised an eyebrow, peeking over your shoulder at the book. "What do you mean, 'too real?'" 

You sighed, trying to calm your nerves. "It’s like the book knows what I’m doing. It started describing my house, my movements, even my thoughts. And now I feel like something’s watching me." 

Heeseung chuckled softly, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Come on, it’s just a book. You’re letting it get to you." Heeseung tilted his head, giving you that playful, reassuring smile that had always made you feel better. 

Heeseung was right—this had to be your mind playing tricks on you. 

As you looked at him, it seemed as if he wanted to say something but was hesitant. You were about to ask him about it but he then spoke after a moment, his voice soft but firm, “But truthfully, I’ve noticed things too. Weird things. I thought maybe... you’d want to talk about it.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. He had noticed things? Things like what? 

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Heeseung’s expression darkened slightly, his brows furrowing. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I think you’re being watched. I’ve seen someone—or something—lurking near your house at night. It’s hard to explain, but... it doesn’t feel right.” 

Your pulse quickened, fear curling tightly in your chest. Was it the watcher? The same figure described in the book? How could Heeseung know about this? How could he have seen it when you only just read it? 

As if sensing your rising panic, Heeseung stepped closer, his voice gentler. “Listen, I know how crazy this sounds, but I’m not lying. I’ve seen it. And I don’t think it’s just a person. I think it’s something worse.” 

The book’s words flashed in your mind: "The watcher is not human. It never was."

Your throat went dry. “How do you know?” you managed to ask. 

Heeseung hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours. “Because... I’ve been through this before. A long time ago, in another town, another place. It started just like this. The feeling of being watched. The strange occurrences. The book...” 

Your heart stopped. The book. 

Heeseung followed your gaze to the novel sitting on the table. His face paled slightly. “You’ve been reading it, haven’t you?” 

You nodded slowly. “It’s... about me. It knows everything. Every detail of my life, every move I make. It’s like it’s writing my story as I live it.” 

Heeseung ran a hand through his wet hair, his face grim. “It’s not just writing your story,” he said, his voice low. “It’s controlling it.” 

You stared at him, a sinking feeling gnawing at your stomach. “What do you mean?” 

Heeseung took a deep breath, his eyes darkening with the weight of what he was about to say. “Once you start reading it, it doesn’t stop. The book—"The Silent Watcher"—it latches onto you, like a parasite. It watches, it waits, and then it pulls you in. You become a character in its pages, trapped in the story it writes. The watcher... it’s part of the book, part of the story, and it’s after you.” 

Your mind reeled. The watcher, the book, Heeseung—everything was connected. But how? Why? 

“How do we stop it?” you whispered, dread settling deep in your bones. 

Heeseung looked at you, his eyes filled with both fear and determination. “I don’t know if we can stop it,” he admitted. “But there might be a way to survive. We need to finish the book. And whatever happens, we need to make sure it doesn’t write the ending.” 

The air around you seemed to grow colder, the walls of your house closing in as the weight of his words sank in. The watcher was out there, lurking, waiting. And the only way to escape was to face the story head-on. 

With Heeseung by your side, you knew there was no turning back. 

The book still lay open on the table, waiting for you to turn the next page. 

Together, you took a deep breath and plunged back into the story, knowing that whatever came next, you were no longer alone in this nightmare. 

The rain had slowed to a soft patter against the windows, but inside the house, the tension remained thick. You glanced at Heeseung, whose calm demeanor seemed to waver for a moment as he stared at the book on the table. His earlier words echoed in your mind—"The book is controlling your story. The watcher is part of it." 

But something about him wasn’t sitting right. 

You shook your head, trying to focus. This wasn’t the time for doubt. You had just discovered that your life, your every move, was being dictated by the book. You were living out its plot, a puppet in someone else’s hands, and now Heeseung was telling you that the watcher wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. It was real. But how did he know so much? How was he so familiar with the horrors unfolding around you? 

Heeseung shifted beside you, his eyes scanning the room as if he were looking for something—or someone. 

"Do you hear that?" he asked quietly, stepping closer to you. His voice was soft, but the way his eyes stayed fixed on the book sent a shiver down your spine. 

You strained your ears. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the faint dripping of rain outside. "No… What are you—" 

He cut you off, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly. "It's closer than you think. We need to be careful." 

Before you could respond, something clicked in your mind—something off about him. There was a confidence in his movements that seemed too practiced, too precise. The way he watched the shadows, as if he was waiting for something, felt more deliberate than concerned. And then there was his sudden arrival. Why had he shown up tonight, of all nights? How had he known to come? 

As Heeseung stepped away from you, pacing the room like he was calculating something, you caught sight of the reflection in the window. For just a split second, you saw it. The faintest hint of something dark, something familiar—the outline of a mask. It was familiar to the one you saw on the television just moments before. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but your heart lurched in your chest. 

You blinked hard, trying to push the thought away. It couldn't be true. Heeseung was helping you, he was your best friend. He seemed as terrified as you were, didn’t he? 

But as he turned back to face you, his eyes meeting yours, something in his gaze had shifted. There was a glint, a spark of something cold, something calculated. You had seen that look before. Not in Heeseung, but in the very stories you had read—where the killer wore a friendly face, a mask hiding the truth underneath. 

Your pulse quickened, the room suddenly feeling too small. "Heeseung," you said slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, "why are you really here?" 

Heeseung stopped, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you for what felt like an eternity. Then, he let out a low chuckle, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I told you—I’ve been through this before. I’ve seen it happen. I’m trying to help you.” 

But there was something wrong with the way he said it. The way his voice dropped, too smooth, too casual, as if he was reading from a script. And then, without warning, he stepped closer, his smile lingering just a little too long. 

You took a step back, your breath catching in your throat. "Help me?" The question came out shaky, your nerves fraying. "Or are you just watching? Like the book says." 

His eyes darkened, and for the first time, you saw it—an unsettling amusement lurking just beneath the surface. "It’s funny," he said, his voice soft, "how easy it is to blend in, to be the hero in someone’s story when really…" He trailed off, a twisted grin tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Your heart raced as the truth began to dawn on you. Heeseung wasn’t here to help. He was here because he was part of the story. He wasn’t just a bystander or some random figure from the neighborhood. He was the watcher. 

Heeseung leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin, and whispered, "You should’ve been more careful. You never know who’s behind the mask." 

The room spun as the pieces clicked into place. Heeseung—he was the one watching, controlling the story from the shadows. He had lured you into this twisted narrative, guiding your every move, setting the stage for his own sick game. 

And now, you were trapped with him, the very person you thought was your ally. 

Fear gripped you, cold and unforgiving, as Heeseung’s hand drifted toward the edge of his jacket. Slowly, deliberately, he reached inside and pulled out the unmistakable white mask, the one you had seen in countless horror movies and nightmares. The very one you saw on TV. 

Ghost Face. 

He held it in his hand, turning it slowly, watching your reaction with a sick kind of satisfaction. “You really thought you could just read the book and escape?” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “This story was never about escaping. It’s about survival.” 

Your legs felt like they would give out beneath you, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. The book had warned you, laid out the plot, but now you realized—you were never meant to win. 

Heeseung stepped closer, the mask now in place over his face, his voice deep and distorted as he spoke through the iconic grin. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure your ending is… memorable.” 

Panic surged through you, and before he could move, you bolted toward the hallway, your heart pounding in your ears. Behind you, you heard the low chuckle of Ghost Face, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he followed.  

You stumbled through the hallway, your breath coming in ragged gasps, trying to make sense of the nightmare you were trapped in. The sound of Heeseung’s slow, deliberate footsteps echoed behind you, growing louder with each passing second. He wasn’t rushing—he didn’t need to. He had the upper hand, and he knew it. 

How did it come to this? Your mind raced as you fought to keep yourself from spiraling into panic. Just hours ago, he was your friend—your ally in this strange, terrifying situation. But now, the realization that he had been the orchestrator of everything, the puppet master behind the mask, hit you like a punch to the gut. 

You skidded into the kitchen, eyes scanning wildly for something—anything—to defend yourself. The drawers. You lunged for them, pulling one open and rifling through its contents. A flash of metal caught your eye, and you grabbed a kitchen knife, gripping it tightly in your trembling hands. 

A soft, mocking laugh drifted from the hallway. “What’s the plan now?” Heeseung’s voice was calm, almost playful, as he spoke through the Ghost Face mask. “You think you’re going to fight me? You’re in my story.” 

His footsteps were getting closer. 

You backed up, heart pounding in your chest, gripping the knife so tightly that your knuckles turned white. “I’m not just going to stand here and let you kill me,” you spat, your voice shaking but defiant. 

Heeseung’s figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway, the Ghost Face mask a chilling, distorted smile in the dim light. His head tilted slightly, as if amused by your bravery. “That’s what I like about you,” he said, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of admiration. “Always a fighter. But that’s what makes this fun, isn’t it?” 

Heeseung raised a gloved hand, revealing the long, sharp blade of the knife that had been hidden beneath his coat. The sight of it sent a jolt of terror through you. You took a step back, keeping the kitchen table between the two of you, trying to buy time, trying to think of a way out. 

“This isn’t a movie, Heeseung,” you said, voice trembling. “This is real life. You’re not going to get away with this.” 

Heeseung chuckled, the sound dark and menacing. “But that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, twirling the knife in his hand like it was an extension of himself. “This is a story. And you’re still playing your part. You always have been.” 

Your back hit the counter, and you realized you were running out of space. Heeseung was toying with you, taking his time, savoring every moment of your fear. 

The book’s final pages flashed through your mind as you were trapped, the chilling truth seeping into your bones. You weren’t just a character in the story anymore. 

You were its prey. 

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*

Part 2?

[ppeonppeonhan]

So My Stand-In just ended, and We Are & Wandee Goodday end next week. We still got Knock Knock, Boys!, My Love Mix-Up!, The Rebound, Love Sea, and SunsetxVibes for a while, but...

4 Minutes (Action | Drama | Sci-Fi)

It took Bible almost 2 years to crawl out of that Build fiasco, and the fandom is primed to see him again with all of the ominous and sultry clips of the series they've been teasing us with.

Obviously, it looks promising 👀 but I'm most excited to see him in action again, and to explore another supernatural Thai drama -- this time about precognition (aka seeing the future). It'll be even more interesting to explore what it's like to be in a relationship when you BOTH have that ability. Does it prevent missteps or prove they're inevitable? We'll also get to see if Sammon, co-writer of the haunting Dead Friend Forever, will haunt us with every project.

Battle of the Writers (Rom Com)

Tutor and Yim of Middleman's Love are joined by not one, but FIVE other couples in this adaptation of a Chinese webtoon where one of them is accused of plagiarizing the other. I love a love-hate dynamic, but I can't imagine Yim resisting Tutor for long, so we'll see.

Century of Love (Action | Drama | Romance | Supernatural)

Boy meets girl. Boy falls for girl. Girl dies. Boy uses magic stone to stay alive and agrees to die a tragic death if he doesn't find his reincarnated girl after 100 years. The Gods said "Ally!", sent her ass back as a boy the last year of that century, as if to say: "Oh, are you really in love? Prove it!" Boy, understandably, doesn't recognize girl. Suspense and tension ensue.

Really enjoying how the supernatural genre is slowly becoming as prominent as the high school / college romance settings. Please give me more of The Sign. But I'm, honestly, not really a fan of the actor Daou, which made it hard to endure their last series together, Love in Translation. Mostly in it for cheeky and adorable Offroad -- and the plot, obviously.

This Love Doesn’t Have Long Beans (Rom Com)

So what I gather from the trailer is that a douchey rich guy hires a model to seduce a chef into making him his successor. Fuzzy on the why, but am far more interested in how that rich guy seduces the model's very aggressive bestie. Double the love-hate. Double the fun.

The Pit Babe writers wasted NO time capitalizing on the success of their series, and their pairings. Not only is this an answer to the Jeff and Alan fandom's pleas for more, it's also a response to the ghost ship of Kim and Kenta. We've never felt so seen. Also, I'm loving Thailand's Chef era.

The Trainee (Comedy | Drama | Romance)

A production intern slowly realizes the assistant director that everybody fears is low-key kindhearted -- and a whole ass snack. PAPI!!!

Love me some OffGun. Cooking Crush was meh but I have high hopes for this one. Per uje, their chemistry is immaculate.

DATE: Mid-July 2024

[notlongtolove]

into the rose garden; for evermore

months of hope, weeks of ache. you’ve stayed. you’ve waited. you’ve stayed in the waiting. more pathetic than poetic if you’re being honest. but now, with him standing here with his heart in his hands, it doesn’t feel simple. this work is part of the burnt norton series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst... with an ending

content: situationship core, fighting, tears, sad...

word count: 5.5k

note: thank you for all the love on the burnt norton series! i hope you enjoy this last and final part (make sure to read allll the way to the end for something special inspired by this!)

a line: You knew you were tied to a fate of loving hard first, crying harder later.

Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. - t.s. eliot

It was quiet, but Spencer heard it all the same.

“I love you.”

The confession was as delicate as it was sacred. A soft, almost fragile, wisp of a sound that left your lips. 

His breath stilled before coming out in a shaky exhale as your hand curled around his. He swallowed and wished he could unhear it. Unknow it. But Spencer Reid has always been cursed with knowing things he wished he didn’t.

He’d tried not to notice at first. The way your gaze still lingered on him, how your voice still softened with every call of his name.

Of course, he’d known. And then he’d tried to forget.

When you’d suggested being friends instead—your voice trembling but determined—Spencer had known then that he should’ve walked away. He’d read enough, lived enough, to know how this would end. They said if you could still be friends with someone after loving them, it meant only one of two things: either you had never truly loved them, or you still did.

Spencer knew it wasn’t the former. He was many things—awkward, fractured, clumsy with feelings—but he wasn’t a liar. 

And he loved you like it hurt him.

He had tried to kick the habit of you. Tried to drag out the time between phone calls and texts, tried to wean himself off the need to see your smile, hear your laugh, feel your lips on his. He’d told himself that he was being kind, that this distance he built between you was mercy. He knew it was cruel to keep stringing you along, holding on to you even as he kept you at arm’s length—but he wasn’t selfish enough to pretend he deserved you. 

And so, while you stayed, wanting, waiting, Spencer ran.

Not because he didn’t love you. But because he didn’t know how to stay without breaking you in the process.

Thursday had come and gone. No text, no call. You weren’t phased, not at first, telling yourself the case ran long. It was a willing suspension of disbelief—that he was buried in reports and unsteady sleep, lost in the same work that had stolen him all the times before. 

But then Friday arrived. Time dragged, slow and heavy, as each second passed. The news alerts, spam calls, and junk messages that lit up your screen mocked you relentlessly. The silence of Saturday and Sunday wasn’t any better, each minute unbearably long. Before you knew it, it had been a week since you’d last heard from him, since you’d seen even the faintest ghost of Spencer Reid.

Your friends didn’t ask questions. They didn’t bother prying, all too happy to fill in the blanks themselves. “Good riddance,” one of them had said over drinks one night. You laughed with them, too loud, a sound that didn’t quite belong to you. “About time you let that one go.” And you let them believe that was the truth.

You didn’t fill them in on the part where you’d been the one left hanging, the one Spencer had walked away from without a word. You let them believe you were the strong one, the sensible one, that you’d cut the cord and been better for it. You swallowed that truth alone bitterly because you couldn’t bear their pity. If Spencer wanted to close the door on you, you weren’t about to break your nails bloody clawing it back open. You’d already stood there, holding it wide for him, time and time again.

But in the quiet of the night, your bed empty and cold, anger and sadness slipped in through the cracks. They sat at the edge of your bed like unwanted guests, familiar and persistent, whispering the same questions you had no answers to. “What had changed?” Sadness wept, her shoulders shaking between sobs. “What had you done wrong?” Anger screamed, louder, harsher, her tongue lashing. 

Each thought was a page torn from you, words unsaid thrown into the fire. Vulnerable and wasted—they could only have ever been meant for him. You hated yourself for it. And, for a fleeting second, you hated him too. He was gone. You were still here—waiting, always waiting. But you’d known all along that the flash of his badge, the weight of the gun on his hip, could never have compared to the significance of you. 

In a way, you would’ve been right. Spencer’s work—his pride, his passion, his relentless devotion—It was all-consuming, yes, and it could never compare to you. 

Nothing could compare to you.

You were it for him. 

He knew it from the way sleep came so easily in your presence, his body finally surrendering to the peace and security he felt only in your arms. You were a quiet reprieve he could find nowhere else. He knew it from the way his heart had splintered when he’d heard you crying, the sounds of your sniffles fracturing something inside him. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn on the light. It would’ve been too unbearable, too painful, to face the sight of tears on your face. 

To Spencer, you were the light at the end of a tunnel he’d stopped trying to run through years ago. He loved you for it—God, did he love you for it. But it was a light he didn’t think he deserved to reach.

And that terrified him more than anything. 

Spencer wasn’t made for softness. He knew that. Whatever pieces of him had once been smooth and whole were long gone. He wasn’t the kind of man who could give you love letters or lazy Sundays with whispered promises. He was sleepless nights and cold coffee reheated three times over. He was restless hands and a mind constantly bracing for the next worst thing to happen. His time at the BAU had turned him into something broken and jagged. The last thing he wanted was to ruin you, too. 

Because you, his sweet girl—soft, bright, and unshakably steady—you were everything he wasn’t. You didn’t need that. You didn’t deserve that. You deserved someone better, someone less damaged, someone who didn’t need you just to keep from sinking. 

Maybe you’d found that in him. He was a friend of a co-worker of a friend of a cousin of a—wherever he came from, you hadn’t bothered to remember. He wasn’t Spencer. 

This is your third date. Date. The word itself felt like a foreign concept. It carried a weight of certainty you’d never had before. With Spencer, there were no real beginnings, no clear endings—just nights out cut short, nights in cloaked in secrecy. A thing you never dared—or perhaps in Spencer’s case, cared—to truly define. 

“I’d love to see you again,” he’d said, his voice solidly steady. “How’s Friday?”

“Friday’s fine,” you replied.

And when Friday came, so did he. On time, standing at your door with a smile that was easy to read, so uncomplicated, so un-Spencerlike. You’d gotten dinner, had a walk in the park, stopped by the little ice cream parlour you’d always wanted to take Spencer to. It was all exactly what you’d said it would be. Perfectly and predictably fine.

He dropped a piece of his waffle cracker onto the table, then casually blew it off and popped it into his mouth.

“Five-second rule, right?” he grinned.

“You know, actually, germs can transfer in less than—” 

You hated the fact that Spencer was still playing on your mind. You hated the fact that you knew you weren’t on his more. You caught yourself, then shrugged, laughing it off.

“Forget it, I do it too.”

You tried to forget it. To forget him. It’d been almost 3 weeks since you’d last seen Spencer at this point. Anger and sadness hadn’t left entirely. They lingered, silent but present. You could feel them, but they were easier to ignore now—especially with a new warmth beside you at night, an easy distraction from the quiet ache.

But then, nostalgia came. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. No, she was more insidious than that. 

She sat, cool and poised, on your kitchen counter, watching you with a sickeningly gentle gaze. “Remember how he used to help with the dishes after dinner? He’d wash them twice-over just because he knew you liked them that way. This one doesn't do that, does he? Doesn’t even know.” Her words stung, and they didn’t stop there. "Why didn’t you tell him? Why haven’t you told him?"

You don’t know why. 

Sometimes, nostalgia grew meaner. She waltzed through the house, taking root in all the places you thought you’d exorcised him from. She rested on your dresser, her voice soft but biting. “You’re really going to wear that out with him? He bought it for you, remember? It still smells like him.​​" Her tone sharpened. "Don’t be cruel.”

You weren’t trying to be. 

Still, as you turned to leave the room, you caught the faintest flicker of a thought—Nostalgia’s quiet, treacherous whisper as she lingered in the doorway. “He’s not him.”

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. 

It definitely wasn’t fair for Spencer either when he saw you that day, walking down your street with your hands tucked into your pockets and another’s arm casually draped around your waist. It felt cruel, really. He hadn’t meant to be there. He’d only come to drop off your key. But fate, it seemed, had other plans—a twist and shove of the knife already buried hilt-deep in his chest.

The guy next to you looked stupid, so fucking stupid. There was no other way to put it. Spencer hated everything about him—his stupid fucking face, his stupid fucking hair, and his stupid fucking suit that probably smelled like the overpriced cologne Morgan used to wear. 

Spencer decided to call him Stupid Fucking Bob. It felt appropriate. Cathartic, even.

Stupid Fucking Bob was tall. Taller than most. Not taller than Spencer, though, which gave him the tiniest, pettiest flicker of satisfaction. But it didn’t last. Not when you threw your head back and laughed at something Stupid Fucking Bob had said, your eyes crinkling in that way Spencer knew all too well. 

Stupid Fucking Bob had the audacity to be dressed like he had his life together. A crisp, ironed button-up shirt, perfectly tailored that was worlds away from Spencer’s own casual, comfortable style. His whole look screamed refined—the kind of guy who probably ironed his perfectly matching pair of socks and knew the difference between champagne and prosecco. He’s nothing like Spencer. 

Maybe Stupid Fucking Bob, with his stupid suit and stupid gelled hair was exactly what you needed now. Maybe he was a lawyer. Or a doctor. Something respectable and put-together. Someone who wouldn’t cancel dinners at the last minute or drag you to niche bookstores for fun.

Your hair was braided. That hit him first. He’s never seen you wear it like that before, and it felt like a punch to the gut. And your makeup? You looked beautiful. Well, you were always beautiful, but today you looked different in a way that made his heart ache. The heels on your feet—When had you started wearing heels? Or maybe you always did. He wouldn’t know, he’d never been with you anywhere formal enough to warrant anything beyond casual slides or sneakers. It all hit him harder than he expected.

Spencer turned away, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat. He needed to leave. The ache burned, spreading through his chest like wildfire, scorching every inch of him. He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now. 

But fate seemed to smirk and snapped her fingers.

“Spencer?”

Fuck.

He took a deep breath, forcing it past the lump in his throat, and tried to steady his breathing. His hands carried a slight tremor, and he shoved them into his pockets, curling them into fists. He managed to muster a smile—strained, but passable.

“Hey!” he said, wincing as his voice came out a little too loud, a little too eager. 

“Wow,” you replied, your tone warm but surprised, “I haven’t seen you in—”

“Yeah,” Spencer interrupted quickly, his words tumbling over yours. “We, um, we had a big case.” He let out a short laugh, the kind he’d learned to recognise when suspects were trying to fill the silence with empty words.

You shifted your weight, hesitating for just a second before gesturing to the man standing beside you. “Oh, um, sorry—this is my, uh, friend, he’s…” Stupid Fucking Bob leaned forward, offering a polite, firm handshake.

But before he could reach Spencer, you stepped in, leaning over to stop him. “Oh, Spencer doesn’t…” you said softly. The way your hand gently rested on his arm wasn’t lost on Spencer. Whatever stupid fucking name he gave, Spencer couldn’t hear it over the static in his head. 

Spencer couldn’t decide which was worse—the way you stepped in so instinctively, a painful reminder of how well you still knew him, or the way you were touching Stupid Fucking Bob, like you were starting to know him too. You’d called him a friend. He can’t be anything more than that, right? But the hesitation before you said the word told Spencer otherwise. 

“Nice to meet you,” Spencer muttered through gritted teeth, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. It was the polite thing to do, even though his palms were clammy, and Spencer couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes for more than a second. 

You were looking at him, your expression unreadable. Spencer hated that. And Stupid Fucking Bob just stood there, calm and composed in a way that made Spencer want to throw something. 

Spencer hated Bob. Fuck, he hated Bob. Spencer hated the way his hand rested casually on your lower back, a touch that was so possessive, like it belonged there. But more than Bob, Spencer hated the way you didn’t pull away.

“So, uh,” you said, clearing your throat, “just in the neighbourhood?”

Spencer nodded stiffly, his hands still buried in his pockets, fingers curling tight around nothing. “Yeah, I uh, had some errands to run,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual.

You nodded back, your smile polite but tight, “Yeah, same here—”

“We were just grabbing lunch,” Stupid Fucking Bob cut in, his voice too cheerful, too comfortable. Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Bob. Spencer's jaw tightened, his molars grinding together. 

We.

The word reverberated through his skull. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Right, right,” he said, nodding a little too much, as if that would make the whole thing easier to digest. It didn’t.

“I um, don’t want to keep you from your lunch,” Spencer finally said, his voice tight, his words clipped. He glanced at you, but only for a moment. “I should... I should get going. Errands and… other things.” He motioned vaguely over his shoulder, like there was somewhere he desperately needed to be. There wasn’t.

You hesitated, and for a brief moment, it looked like you might say something. But then Stupid Fucking Bob shifted beside you, his hand brushing against your back once more, and the words died on your lips.

Watching Spencer walk away felt like betrayal at its sharpest, love at its most humiliating.

It wasn’t fair that you had put yourself through the quiet torment of watching, staying, hoping—only for it all to come to nothing. It wasn’t fair that you allowed yourself to feel, to be seen in all your vulnerability, just to have Spencer walk away as if none of it had ever mattered. 

I’ll stay, if he stays. It was your unspoken promise to yourself and your silent plea to him. 

But he hadn’t stayed. 

So it wasn’t fair that you were still here, while he got to walk away. It wasn’t fair, but you let him go regardless.

Because Spencer’s absence had given your life a strange kind of regularity, one you tried to see the best in. You leaned into it, telling yourself it was what you needed. It was a new kind of normalcy. You should’ve liked it, and you did like it. 

At least you told yourself you did.

Three days later, it was a work party that finally unravelled you. Maybe it was the way your coworkers shared plans for the holidays, futures they seemed so certain of, the kind of dreaming you’d stopped allowing to indulge in. Or maybe it was the wine—too much of it, too quickly. Probably the wine. Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you locked the door behind you and leaned against the sink, staring at the girl looking back at you in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly tousled, her smile looked convincing enough. She looked alive, happy even—But you didn’t quite feel like her. 

Your fingers found your phone, scrolling aimlessly until they stopped, hovering over a name. It was instinctive, thoughtless. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pressed call. “Could you come get me?” A pause, then softer, almost pleading. “Please?”

The party had dwindled to a quiet murmur by the time you stood waiting by the street. You nudged your coworkers along, promising them you’d be alright. 

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” one of them asked, concern flashing across her face.

“I’m fine,” you assured her, waving her off. “I’m waiting for someone.”

You had someone now. Someone dependable. That felt good, right? It was what you deserved. Dependable was good. Dependable was safe. But when you glanced up, sobriety crashed through your buzzed haze in an instant. It wasn’t dependability that greeted you. 

“Spencer?” His name escapes your lips in a whisper, disbelief catching in your throat. “What are you—”

“You called me.” 

Your stomach twists. “I… I did?”

“You did,” he nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. The screen lit up with your call log, stark and undeniable. Your eyes flicked back to him—his hair slightly dishevelled, his coat hanging open. He looked like he’d rushed out the door. Your chest tightens, the ache returning in full force.

All you can think is, Oh God. I called the wrong him.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. Your heart hammers away in your chest as your gaze darts toward the street, desperate for a cab. “I didn’t mean to call—You can go. You should go.”

Spencer’s brow furrows, something unreadable crossing his face. “I’m already here,” he says, “Let me walk you home.” “I—” Your voice is soft, tentative. You hesitate. The choice should be simple. He’s already here. He’s offering to walk you home. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. And yet, this feels wrong. You despise the fact that it does. You shouldn’t say it. You know you shouldn’t. But the silence between you is unbearable, and his presence feels impossibly close. “Okay,” you murmur, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Suddenly it feels more than wrong. It feels like surrender. 

The night feels colder than it should as the two of you start walking. The silence stretches, long and awkward, until finally, he speaks.

“I’m glad you called me.” 

Your stomach twists. “I didn’t mean to.”

His footsteps falter for just a moment, and when you glance at him, his gaze is sharp, questioning. “Me?”

“What?” you stammer, the word barely forming on your lips.

“You didn’t mean to call me?” His eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. They demand an answer you’re not ready to give. The question hangs in the air between you but the weight of his gaze has you pinned in place.

“I—yes, I didn’t—” You stumble over your words, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Spencer watches you carefully, his eyes never leaving you, “You didn’t mean to, but you called me.”

Your breath shakes as you let out a long exhale. Finally, you whisper, “Yes. I did.”

“That guy,” He leans in just a little, his expression hardening. “Was he who you meant to call?”

You swallow and nod slowly, the answer burning in your throat. The reluctant admission feels raw as something flashes across Spencer’s face—Annoyance? Jealousy? You can’t hold his gaze long enough to tell. “What is he? Your boyfriend?” he mutters when you come to stop at a traffic light. His words strike a match, igniting a quiet anger within you. 

“That’s none of your business,” you shoot back, your voice more defensive than you intended. It wasn’t so much that you needed to defend him—it was more about defending this new part of your life, the one where Spencer wasn’t there, the one where his absence hadn’t completely consumed you. A shred of proof that shows you can stand without Spencer. 

That you are whole without him.

The silence that continues to stretch between you is heavy and suffocating. You silently curse the city for its sudden and inconvenient lack of cabs. Typical. The universe has always had twisted sense of humour.

“You know you don’t actually like him.” Spencer says under his breath. 

“Oh, what the hell do you know?” You burst out. Without thinking, you step forward into the street. The light hasn’t turned green, but the road is clear, and Spencer’s presence is clawing at your throat. You need to do something, anything to get away from it.

Spencer’s hand shoots out, his fingers curling firmly around your wrist. You whip around to face him, anger simmering beneath you. His expression is calm, infuriatingly so, though there’s a flicker of disapproval in his eyes. “I know you,” he says, like he’s daring you to deny it.

“No,” you snap, shrugging his hand off your arm with a sharp jerk. The movement feels more like self-defense than defiance. You press the traffic light button repeatedly, a little too hard each time, even though it’s already lit. It’s a pointless gesture, but it gives your restless hands something to focus on. “You don’t know anything.”

“I do.” His voice was maddeningly steady, calm in a way that made something inside you snap. “I know your hair was braided that day because you probably hadn’t washed it the day before. You hate washing your hair.”

“Just—” You shake your head, voice breaking. “Stop talking.”

“I know those heels definitely hurt your feet,” he continues, relentless, “but you wore them anyway. Probably because you think he likes them.”

“Spencer, stop.” You’re trying to hold it together, to keep the tears at bay, but they come anyway.

“I know—”

“God, Spencer, stop it!” The words explode out of you. “You don’t know shit,” you snap, wiping furiously at your cheeks, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Just—Just fuck off!” 

Spencer visibly flinches, but only slightly. The traffic light changes to green, but neither of you move to cross. “You—” Your chest heaves as you pull in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. You close your eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly, “You should go.”

“Is that really what you want?” 

His question feels like mockery. What does it matter what you want? It clearly never mattered before, and it certainly won’t matter now.

You’d always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. You liked to believe that love, no matter how complicated or painful, was worth it. Maybe that was the only way you could make sense of the pain no one asked you to endure, a way to quantify the heartbreak Spencer never asked you to feel. You told yourself it had to serve some greater purpose, even when that purpose had yet to reap any kind of reward.

You tried to convince yourself that staying was a decision made from a place of independence, that your willingness to endure was an admirable strength born from the innate human need to love, and of wanting to be loved in return. But you knew it ran deeper than just that. You knew that you didn’t deserve this pain, but you also knew you’d never be the one to let go first. Your mother used to tell you that relationships only work if one person loves harder, and you’d realised early on that that person would always be you. 

You knew you were tied to a fate of loving hard first, crying harder later. 

And in that, it would never be fair. 

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest. 

Spencer pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is softer—but no less cutting. “You’re lying to yourself,” he says quietly. “And to him.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you turn sharply, starting to walk. “Oh, I get it,” you said, a scoff lacing your tone. “You’re trying to play matchmaker now? Is that what this is about?” You fold your arms across your chest, tugging at your jacket, a feeble attempt to hide yourself from the hurt he so effortlessly unearthed.

“This isn’t about him.” he says firmly. “This is about you—about us.”

“There is no us,” you spit as you turn to face him momentarily. “Remember?”

“You’re acting out.”

“Wow, real mature Spence,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “They teach you that in FBI school? You think just because I’m finally happy—finally not waiting around for you—that means I’m acting like a petty, jealous child?”

“No, I think you’re acting out because you’re hurt.”

“Oh, yeah? Gee, I wonder why.”

“Because I didn’t say it back.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The world stops. The air seems to freeze around you. For a moment, you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. A car speeds by, its horn blaring. Spencer reacts immediately, stepping to position himself between you and the flow of any other oncoming traffic like a barrier.

“What are you—Don’t just stop—” His hand grips your arm firmly, tugging you toward the sidewalk. But your feet refuse to move, rooted in place, and you barely register his words. “Would you—would you get off the street?” he says urgently. You can’t do anything but stare at him. 

“You heard me?”

His expression softens. “I did. That night.” Spencer’s voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. “I heard you.”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. The glow of the traffic light pulses in the corner of your vision, steadily blinking. Sadness swells in your chest, but it’s overtaken by something sharper, hotter, darker. 

Rage. Inexplicable, undeniable rage.

“You heard me.” You whisper, more so to yourself than to him. “You heard me, and you still—” The tears choke out the rest of the sentence. “Don’t,” you snap, stepping back when he tugs at you again. “Don’t touch me. Don’t—Just go. Please just go.” You turn away from him, your legs carrying you as far as they can, as fast as they can. You don’t even know where you’re headed anymore, only that you need to keep moving. But you hear Spencer behind you, his steps matching your pace. 

“I’m not leaving you here.” Another faint brush of his fingers grazes yours sends you spinning back around, wrenching your hand away as if his touch burns.

“But you did!” you scream, your voice raw. Your grief echoes in the stillness of the street. The two of you are locked in some heartbreaking tableau. It feels almost cinematic—the age-old story of a girl who loved and a boy who didn’t. “You already left, Spencer! You heard me, and you still left!” 

Spencer’s face crumples, and for a moment, he looks as lost as you feel. “I didn’t know what to do,” his words tumble out, his voice breaking. “I—”

“You could’ve stayed! You could’ve said it back! You—” You shake your head, swallowing the grief that rises in your throat, the words too painful to say out loud. 

“I do,” he says suddenly, stepping in front of you. “I love you. I do. I love you. So much.” he repeats, his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you but knows better. “I love you too.” 

That last word—too—cuts through you. It lands with a cruel finality. It should soothe the ache inside you, but it doesn’t. It’s not the solace it should be. It’s only a bitter reminder that he heard you that night. That he left anyway.

“Then why?” The question comes out in a broken whisper, and you hate yourself for how vulnerable it sounds. “Why didn’t you say anything? You didn’t even try—” you whisper through your tears. “You just… left.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you—I was scared that I would,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush as he reaches for your hands in an effort to ground himself. “I didn’t want to screw things up even more. I thought if I left—you’d be better off.”

“Oh, fuck off, Spencer. Look at us. Look at me. Is this what you call better off?” You stand there, unmoving, tears streaking down your face, each one a testament to your heartbreak. The sight of you, raw and broken, makes something deep inside him fracture.

“You hurt me anyway.” Your voice shakes with unspent grief and fury.

“I know, I know I did, baby—”

"Don’t call me that!" you snap, your heart clenching at the word. You try to pull your hands out of his grip, away from his touch, but he holds on.

“Baby—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” Spencer says, his voice cracking. He shuts his eyes for a moment, furrowing his brows, as if trying to collect himself. “I know I fucked up. I know. I’m just—” He exhales shakily. “I’m trying to fix this. Look at me. Please. Just... please.”

You can’t look at him. You focus on the floor, on anything to avoid his eyes, because if you see that pleading expression, you just might break—You’ll shatter all over again.

“That guy?” Spencer’s voice pulls you back, quiet and desperate. “He doesn’t know anything about you. I knew it the minute I saw him. He said you were going to lunch? You hate everything on your street within a five-mile radius. That’s why we always ordered Chinese. Right?” 

Every word he out of his mouth feels like a plea and what’s worse is that you know he’s right. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice breaking. “I was stupid. I didn’t think. I thought leaving was the right thing—that I was protecting you from me. But I see now—I know now. It wasn’t. It was the worst thing I could’ve done. To you. To us. I was wrong.” His voice drops, barely audible. “And I just want a chance to make it right. Please I—”

You hear the break in his voice, and before you can stop yourself, your gaze lifts to meet his, only to see tears pooling in his eyes. The ache in your chest deepens, and this time, you can’t look away.

“Look,” Spencer says, voice cracking, “he’s probably a great guy. Nice, smart—smarter than I ever was if he wants you too. But he doesn’t—” He pauses, swallowing hard, “He can’t love you the way I do. I know people always say I’m smart, that I know a lot. And it’s true—I do. But this? You? Loving you? It’s a fact, the clearest one I’ve ever had. And yeah, I know it took me too damn long to get here. But it’s true. It’s always been true.”

The chasm in your heart splits open, and you didn’t know you were still capable of breaking like this. Of course, Spencer Reid would be good at heartbreaking speeches too. You start to turn away, furiously blinking back the new wave of tears threatening to spill over. 

“Look at me,” he pleads, his voice soft but laced with urgency. “Please. I hate that you won’t look at me, I just—”

You try—God knows you try—but the tears in your eyes blur everything. Still, the desperation in his tone is unmistakable. 

You shake your head, your voice low, “Spence—”

“I want to do this right,” he continues, his words tumbling out with sincerity so raw it sends another wave of hurt right through you. “Just give me a chance to make it right. One chance. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“I don’t—”

“I mean it,” he says quickly. His voice is low, but there’s a desperate edge to it. “No more mistakes. No more labels—forget the friends thing. I’d rather die than just be friends with you. We’ll go out. We’ll take our time. I’ll show you. I’ll really show you. I’ll make it right this time.”

You feel like you’ve spent a lifetime waiting for this moment, for him to say the words you needed most. Months of hope, weeks of ache. You’ve stayed. You’ve waited. You’ve stayed in the waiting. More pathetic than poetic if you’re being honest. But now, with him standing here with his heart in his hands, it doesn’t feel simple. 

Because for the first time, you have a choice. To go back or turn away.

To leave or to stay.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[thoughtsonkm]

Bye Jeju, you've been good..

Eyes always on the prize Jungkookssii mm

The trio was really wholesome in some moments but I'm so ready for Jikook's cozy winter times. It's literally their default setting.

This type of lighthearted mood and way of talking about the topic brings me peace for them. They looked relieved and confident in their choice to stay together. I don't know if they actually knew since September about the lottery verdict or they were just manifesting real hard ahead of time because in their mind there's no way they're separating (like no we don't accept any other answer than being together) but either way what matters is the result and their content feeling.

The way Tae was on the phone the whole time like 'yeah I've heard your enlistment talk 348392 times already' 😂 There really is a sort of "danger" to them having only one extra person on the table cause they get too engulfed in each other. They need a big group when they go out or else 1-2 ppl will feel kinda alienated lol

Jimin in this dark flannel fit got the whole fandom in shambles and rightfully so.

~

Gotta say every time Jimin entertains Jungkook going on and on about topics he knows/has info about, my fondness for them reaches a whole new peak 🥹

~

I get they were trying to display their strength with their typical pool shenanigans but Jungkook?? You need to chill man there's plenty of other ways to "help a man from drowning" 😂(could this type of insane underwater hair grab be considered bf privileges? lol)

This towel scene is so 'boys' coded but also a little frisky you feel me? It just has that vibe you know..

This episode's cuddle was kinda my favourite so far tbh (the CT one is in its own hall of fame given how it was more of a hungry feast than a cuddle). Idk why it just felt very soft, squishy and needy.

NOW THIS is a confirmation about the perilla leaf debacle. Kook was so careful about it I was dying laughing. It can be a risky choice HAHAHAHAHA

mimi 🤝🏻 cats kook 🤝🏻 dogs

WALK THROUGH FIRE FOR YOU, BABY I ADORE YOU 🎶

This scene was the funniest of the episode. The theatrics, the dramatics, the "asking for more sausage while Jimin was leaving". PEAK

The way he was worried about his taste buds lol. Food really is his #2 priority damn. (#1 being Jimin)

Btw this scene doesn't prove anything but the fact that their hyung-dongseang dynamic is almost ✨nonexistent✨.

~

I noticed they always look at the crew in front of them after smth happens or a joke or whatever. Instead they should look at the camera and break the fourth wall, it would be so funny.

~

He's been thinking about it since NYC your honor..

~

Out of topic but during 3 days in Jeju we could see them from time to time with a mic in their hands, especially Jimin, but they never showed any karaoke scenes. ROBBED

~

The suspense about Sapporo is not good for my liking. Like they don't need to make Japan more mystical than it is already, we know it's gonna be the softest thing ever.

Why so hush hush huh? I expect an announcement video by Sunday! (max. monday!)

Anyways..Sapporooo here we cooomeee

[golden-cherry]

foaming at the mouth for the new chapter! The suspense is killing me

I found a way to split the chapter into two, so you’ll be getting one tonight and one on Sunday!

happy two-chapter-week everyone!

[megustacat]

30 Jason Mendal Head Canons - Imagines from someone who does not like him so much

◎━━━━━━◎.◈.◎━━━━━━◎

non-explicit but slight nsfw mentions below

◎━━━━━━◎.◈.◎━━━━━━◎

Enjoys and collects expensive whiskeys from all around the world, also collects cigars - especially the Cuban ones.

Gets a kick out of power - will keep you in suspense because he likes to see you struggle and then releases you as the relieving savior that he is (and yes, I mean that in every possible way).

Has a collection of several black suits which are all the same model.  

Goes for Sunday drives in one of his cabrios as soon as there is one single ray of sunshine out - also drives like an asshole and will tailgate you even if you are already 10 over speed limit. Road rage is real with him.

Has a pool table room in his mansion where he keeps his whiskey bottles neatly organized and plays pool against his visitors - he will always win and he will let you know that he is going to win.

Sore loser - especially in competitions he is good at.

As ambitious as it gets - will stay after hours and also work from home. Sundays are rarely a Sunday for him.

His love language is Giving Gifts - loves to buy clothes and jewelry for his partner, but also other trinkets and things that will serve as a constant reminder of him being in your life.  

Possessive. Will leave love bites all over you and will compromise little.

If he had to choose a pet he would go for a cat. It must be a black cat though and she has to be well behaved. Doesn’t like dogs and their blind loyalty and especially not their smell.

Red wine drinker. Almost as bad a divorced auntie.

Uses hand lotion and chapstick regularly but would not admit to it.

Reads the newspaper on a daily basis and puts a lot of importance on staying informed and on top of recent trends. Judges you if you are not interested in politics and economics and finds it childish to not stay involved in what is going on in the world.

Apple fanboy. Every tech item he owns is from Apple and he will immediately have the newest tech iterations on launch day.

Goes to opera but is not very interested in it. Sees that more as an opportunity to go there with potential clients and discuss business matters.

Always plans slightly over the briefed client budget and then argues with them. Is willing to go down but wants to test his clients. Can effort to lose the ones who are not willing to invest more, and also gladly lets them go.

Has an older sister, who’s a mean girl. Now that they are older they get along better and are mean girls together.

Bondage.

Is very charming when it comes to networking. Meeting new clients and other potential company leads for collaboration is easy for him and he is a sharp observer. Finds it easy to be charismatic and connect quickly and reads people like a book.

Private jet is love, private jet is life.

Loves to travel, especially with his partner. Not because he necessarily wants to see the world or the big wonders of it but because he wants to physically distance himself from his work. He takes it very seriously so actively seeking physical distance from it is one of his ways to get away from it for good.

Has a private coach with whom he works out a lot, at least three times a week, to keep himself healthy.

Generally puts a lot of emphasis on being and staying healthy, like eating well, working out, ergonomic working with standing desks, regular med checks up, to the point where he almost feels like a hypochondriac. Also loves to regularly have saunas.

Judging and directiv. Doesn’t like to elaborate on decisions, mostly wants to have them respected and followed. Also, very direct and ordering when he talks to people. You will hear him say “Listen here”, “Let’s do this”, “Talk to me” a lot in his speech pattern.

Follows in the steps of his father who expected him to also make it big, like him. Jason always felt pressure to accommodate and now that he succeeded over his father, it still seems like there is still no satisfaction. Does not have the best bond to him, but will always have his father as his biggest male influence in his life, seeking a never satisfied-approval from him and mostly finding frustration and criticism.

Plays Golf. Of course he does. Prepare to be the golf cart princess / prince, and pop a bottle of champagne every time he scores a hole in one. He lets you play as often as you like, but he likes it the most when he sees you cheer for him.

Actively participates in day-trading, and if he can’t do it he has a personal stock trader do it for him (which is most of the time because he is too busy with work).

Has a large selection of guide books for succeeding in various fields in life - whether that’s financials, work optimization, self-confidence, charisma and communication. If he reads fiction he likes to go for classics. Can and will judge you on your taste in literature. Finds poetry a waste of time.

His favorite movie director is Christopher Nolan and he can and will make you watch every single one of his movies. Could discuss Interstellar and Inception for hours on end.

Even though he prefers to have people follow his orders and respect his decisions without questioning them, he wants and needs you to go against him. He wants to have constant stimulation in his relationship, mostly in the form of receiving contra from you. It keeps him on his feet and specifically wants you to be different to the world around him. He doesn’t want you to go too far, and generally wants you to agree with him on basic ideologies, but he needs your backlash - it keeps his love for you alive.

[mariacallous]

The anti-Israel student coalition at Columbia University was booted from Instagram on Monday, the latest pro-Palestinian activist organization in New York to have a social media account banned.

Columbia University Apartheid Divest, the consortium of dozens of student groups that took a leading role in the encampment protest last spring, was removed from the platform after posting plans on Saturday for a protest that included an image of a figure holding a Molotov cocktail. The account had more than 40,000 followers.

The protest, which was scheduled for Monday, was to focus on Barnard College, the women’s college associated with Columbia. A later announcement from the protesters said the rally was taking place off campus.

“Barnard will be the first domino to fall — an instrumental piece in toppling the entire university,” the post said.

The protest announcement included photos apparently of university trustees, saying they were “enemies,” “murderers,” and “violently genocidal zionists,” and included inverted black triangles on a red background. Red inverted triangles, which Hamas uses to mark its targets in propaganda videos, have been adopted as a protest symbol by anti-Israel activists.

“Trustees are not untouchable, and now we know their names,” the post said.

Barnard restricted access to campus on Monday to those with valid IDs and implemented other security measures “due to active concerns for violence on Barnard’s campus,” university president Laura Ann Rosenbury said in a message to the campus community sent out on Sunday.

“Inflammatory posts with violent imagery and specific calls for action against the Barnard College community have been circulating on social media,” Rosenbury said in the message, which the university shared with the New York Jewish Week. “Any statements that advocate for violence or harm, including the destruction of property, are a direct violation of our code of conduct and are antithetical to the core principles and mission of Barnard.”

Columbia University Apartheid Divest is an alliance of student groups led by the campus chapters of Students for Justice in Palestine and the anti-Zionist Jewish Voice for Peace, which have been banned from campus for violating protest rules.

The encampment, which CUAD co-organized, sparked a nationwide student movement, and at Columbia it culminated in the forcible takeover of a campus building and dozens of arrests. The campus pro-Palestinian protests have drawn extensive scrutiny from members of Congress, who released a 300-page report on Columbia and other universities in November.

The protests have not been as disruptive this year, but the activists’ rhetoric has escalated. In October, CUAD put out a statement openly endorsing violence and armed resistance “by any means necessary.” 

Last week, protesters at Columbia distributed a newsletter on campus called the “Columbia Intifada” that argued against Israel’s right to exist. The Second Intifada was a violent Palestinian uprising against Israel two decades ago that included waves of suicide bombings and killed an estimated 1,000 Israelis. 

Columbia University Apartheid Divest said on Monday that the suspension was “targeted suppression” meant to “erase Palestine and its movement for liberation” in a statement sent out on the Telegram messaging app.

Other anti-Israel groups in the city have been banned from Instagram since the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas invasion of Israel, which launched Israel’s ongoing multi-front war, mass protests and a wave of antisemitic hate crimes in New York. 

Within Our Lifetime, a hardline group that is perhaps the most visible anti-Israel activist organization in the city, was removed from Instagram in February for violating the platform’s “dangerous organizations and individuals policy.” Within Our Lifetime has worked with Columbia student protesters, including on an unsanctioned event last year that featured members of the activist group Samidoun — which the federal government later took action against because it raises money for a Palestinian terror group. 

Columbia’s chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine was banned from Instagram months later, and days after that, the People’s Solidarity Coalition at New York University, an anti-Israel coalition, was suspended.

Meta, the parent company of Instagram, did not respond to a request for comment on Monday.

[superm4ks]

i am the girl who hates change who sent that ask in june when i was like there's no way max holds onto this title. i cannot believe my meowie continues to surpass my expectations because of course he would win this year. there was no other alternative.

Wow ... And like I told u back then bbygirl .. Max is also a girl who hates change. Max hates change SO much he clinched his 4th in an ice cold pig wid Monza type characteristics that lend themselves to every t0p team except the car wid the suspension of a jeep Wrangler and the top speed of me doing the mile in hs still drunk and on 3 hours of sleep and a mcmuffin. Vegas had a lil something for everybody that wasnt based in Milton Keynes. Unholy temperatures for the ((extremely confused)) merc baddies, slow corners + long straights for the ragazzi, moderate graining for the Woking dolls so Lando cud hit the slay button in low fuel ((an unexpected flop gotta say)). AND nothing for rbr. Not the right wing, not the right balance, not the best tires, not the fresh engine. Imagine being faced wid all that and still feeling fairly confident Max wud be crowned the best driver in the world that weekend, because he's Max Verstappen and for as long as theres a chance I know he'll take it. I know that because I know him. All Max had to do was out qualify Lando in a car that never once got anywhere close to papaya times during practice sessions. I swear they fitted him wid a new wheel and shit came off like three times. So obvi Max out qualifies Lando, then come Sunday, Max manages the gap like the rb20 never been better fit for a circuit, he lets the lil ponies go around and off into the distance to create drama of their own and thats all he wrote. 'there was no alternative' . Say that again. No alternative. No choice. The illusion of choice was broken in Brazil. The definition of insanity was reaffirmed in Vegas. They called an ambulance but not for him. 💎

[mirai-e-jump]

Duet December 2023 Issue ft. Ikeda Masashi Mini Interview (translation below)

Publication: November 7, 2023

Where Passion Resides -Passion for life as an actor-

"The theme this time is "Passion." What made Masashi Ikeda-kun, a multitalented athlete and musician, decide to pursue a career in acting? We asked him to share the passionate feelings he holds inside."

Ikeda: My family loved movies and dramas, so we would rent various genres from the video rental store, such as war documentaries, period dramas, and foreign films, and lived a life where they were always playing in the background. As I was surrounded by movies and dramas, I naturally began to admire the actors who lived in the film world.

However, I couldn't find the courage to pursue my dream….At first, I was just going to find employment. When I was in my third year of college, I was scouted by A-PLUS, the agency I work for now.

I thought again, "How do I want to live my life?" and asked my parents about it. At that time, they told me, "Do whatever you like," so I decided to become an actor, saying, "I only have one life, so I want to take on the challenge!"

I'm grateful to my agency for giving me a chance when I was ready to start job hunting, and to my family for kindly watching over me as I pursued the path I wanted to take. I want to go all the way so that the choice I made that day won't be a mistake.

My first role was as a medical student in episode 10 of Sunday Theater's "TOKYO MER: Mobile Emergency Room"

The tight schedule from morning to late at night made me realize how difficult the profession of being an actor is.

Even in the fast paced and tense environment, the actors, such as Suzuki Ryohei-san and Kaku Kento-san, who played the main roles, performed confidently. Furthermore, I was amazed at how cool and dazzling they looked during the long filming hours, never showing any signs of fatigue and always smiling.

Since I only know about completed productions, I've seen the hard work that goes on behind the scenes, and my fighting spirit is burning to work even harder in my acting career. My main goal now is to play the lead in a drama or movie.

However, since I'm still inexperienced, I'd like to explore new sides of actor Ikeda Masashi by working in various genres, such as comedy and suspense, which I've never tried before.

I live by the motto, "If I'm going to do something, I'll go all the way!" I'll enjoy even the difficult parts, and will continue to do my best from now on!

-Ohsama Sentai King-Ohger- Insider Info

While there were many serious scenes, episode 36 was a silly episode, so there was lots of adlibbing and was fun to film. There's a scene where Jeramie, who I play, manipulates Yanma to dance, and Watanabe Aoto-kun who plays him said to me, "The Director said, I don't care what kind of dancing you do. So, do you have any ideas?" I requested for him to perform the "Awa Odori" dance from my hometown of Tokushima (laughs). I'd like you to see his brave performance in response to my absurd request. I feel bad about making only Aoto-kun dance, so if there's an opportunity, I'll also perform the Awa Odori dance somewhere! (laughs).

[isawthesainz]

Race Recap 14: Belgium

Sunday 28th July 2024

Build-Up:

On 23rd July, it is announced that former Ferrari chief Mattia Binotto will join Audi to lead their F1 project

On 24th July, it is announced that Max Verstappen will take a 10-place grid penalty after having to replace his ICE for the fifth time

On 25th July, it is announced that Esteban Ocon will join Haas for 2025 on a multi-year contract

Also on 25th July, it is revealed that Bruno Famin, the current Alpine principal, is expected to leave the team after the Belgian GP weekend

On 26th July, Alpine announce that team principal Bruno Famin will leave his current role by the end of August

On 26th July, it is announced that Yuki Tsunoda will take a 60-place grid penalty due to a new power unit

In FP3, both Tsunoda and Oscar Piastri run wide over the gravel due to heavy rain, briefly bringing out the yellow flag. Practice is red flagged after Lance Stroll’s aquaplanes and hits the wall at Eau Rouge, breaking the front suspension. After the restart, the session is interrupted by a second red flag due to a large amount of standing water on the track. The red flag is removed with just two minutes left on the clock

Despite setting the fastest time in qualifying, Verstappen will start from P11 due to a grid penalty, with Charles Leclerc taking pole position

Race Highlights:

At the end of Lap 3, Zhou Guanyu reported that he was losing power. However, by Lap 4, his Race Engineers managed to fix the issue without a visit to the pits and the Sauber driver was able to continue the race

On Lap 7, Zhou enters the pits and retires the car due to a hydraulics issue

After the first round of pit stops, Carlos Sainz (who is yet to pit) leads the race with Lando Norris (also yet to pit) in P2

A brief yellow flag is shown on Lap 15 as Sainz runs wide over the gravel in Sector 3

Norris pits on Lap 15, with Sainz pitting on Lap 20

Mercedes call Lewis Hamilton into the pits on Lap 26. Meanwhile, George Russell asks the team to consider a one-stop strategy

During the second round of pit stops, Oscar Piastri pits on Lap 30, overshooting the box and hitting the crew member holding the front jack. The pit stop takes 4.4 seconds and he rejoins the race on P4

By Lap 33, Russell is leading the race, having only had one pit stop. Hamilton is in P2, followed by Charles Leclerc and Piastri

Piastri overtakes Leclerc on Lap 36 to take P3

By Lap 41, Hamilton is within DRS range of Russell, who’s tyres had now completed 30 laps

By Lap 42, Piastri is closing in on both Mercedes drivers, whilst Russell defends agains Hamilton

Sergio Perez pits on Lap 43 to set the fastest lap time from P8

On the final lap, Hamilton locks up into Turn 1, dropping back from Russell

Russell finishes the race in P1, followed by his teammate Hamilton for a Mercedes 1-2. Piastri finishes P3

However, shortly after the race, it is announced that Russell has been disqualified from the race after his car was found to be 1.5kg below the minimum weight requirement. The decision means that Hamilton inherits the win from his teammate, to take his second victory of the season

Race Results:

1st Place: Lewis Hamilton

2nd Place: Oscar Piastri

3rd Place: Charles Leclerc

[watchyourbuck]

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Seven Sentence Sunday!

tagged by @jesuisici33 @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @lover-of-mine @wildlife4life @steadfastsaturnsrings @hippolotamus @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @evanbegins thank you my loves! go check their works!! 🤍

well a few days ago I started thinking about a new wip, and today I come show you the first snippet. I would usually keep it hidden bc I like suspense but not this time. It’s gonna be 10 letters written by Eddie, sent to Maddie. Each chapter will be a new letter. Kinda tw: Buck’s dead. This is the only thing Eddie and Maddie have to keep the memory of him alive.

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

"Dear Maddie,

I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you. After burying the funeral, I felt like I was going to die. I... still kinda do. Everywhere I look, I see him. I guess I don't have to explain it to you. You probably see him, too. He was never just mine. He was ours.

I don't have words of comfort. Chris is in pieces, and frankly, so am I. Somedays I wake up and I absentmindedly reach over to his side. I've had to curl bu back up into my side and cover myself up. The bead is wearing out unevenly.

It's getting harder to carry on. It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but I deleted everyone's number. I don't think I'm strong enough to ever see any of them again. Any of you, really.

I love you, Maddie, I'm sorry.

I should ask how you are, but I think that'd be stupid. Last I heard, Chim had to get you commited against your will. I don't know where you are, but I hope these letters reach you anyway. I think it's the last I have of him, and it's the last I can give of me.

You kindly asked me to tell you how we fell in love. I gotta be honest, Maddie, I didn't couldn't yet, but now... there's a part of me that believes I'll forget if I don't write it down. Kinda like everything else is wasting away.

So, I will. I'm gonna tell you our story. I will be as delicate as I can, because he never deserved anything but gentleness. I only hope I was able to love him the way the universe intended me to love him. I can't fathom thinking that loving him from this far will ever amount to what I could've done had we had our whole lives.

I was too late."

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tagging @spagheddiediaz @honestlydarkprincess @jeeyuns @eddiebabygirldiaz @malewifediaz @buckleyobsessed @smilingbuckley @eddie---diaz @princessfbi @eowon @honestlyeddie @monsterrae1 @bucksbirthmark @transbuck @exhuastedpigeon @cal-daisies-and-briars @nmcggg @disasterbuckdiaz @your-catfish-friend @giddyupbuck @try-set-me-on-fire @firemedicdiaz let me know if you wish to be removed from this particular tag💗

[brownish-bear]

middle of sunday rush im just trying to make sandwiches and i have an epiphany

and i havent been as in touch with the fandom for tmagp so i be rehashing here but:

basiras a school deputy thing--important thing here is this is simply a different career that still is very much a position of power over a population of people, and typically i feel people who do wrong bc wouldnt she be dealing with like suspensions and the like. thats a new thought i just like wow the parallels are actually insane BUT ANYWAYS NOT THE POINT

so really my thought is the universe is just barely shifted

consider: jon only tape recorded cases that didnt work on his laptop. this was explained in the first episode of tma. it wasnt EVERY case, it was certain cases. same way only CERTAIN cases are text to speech in tmagp

consider: in tmagp universe, jon, martin, JURGEN LEITNER ILL COME BACK TO HIM NO I WONT JURGEN LEITNER HELLO I FEEL LIKE WE'RE BREEZING PAST THE FACT THAT WE'RE HEARING JURGEN LEITER READING US HISTORICAL CASES ITS NOT JUST FOR THE VIBES BABES IN THIS UNIVERSE JURGEN LEITNER WORKED FOR THE MAGNUSE INSTITUTE, yeah thats what im getting at in this universe jartin and leitner worked on creating a text to speech or something of the like or SOMETHING they worked in the institute for sure im sure of it sam just needs to get better detective skills

(AMMENDUM: I NEED BETTER DETECTIVE SKILLS IT ISNT JURGEN LEITNER IM JUST BAD AT VOICES. JONAH MAGNUS?)

okay ive got my word vomit out

jon martin jonah. worked at the institute. perhaps worked on text to speech technology for institute. because this universe. is just barely shifted.

mess of an explaination but its all ive got and no i wont try any harder to make it coherent

pls pls add or argue against or anything im foaming at the mouthing thinking about this

its so hard listening to good podcasts as they come out bc wdym i have to WAIT before i can know all the things wdym i cant guess everything immediately

[queerdiazs]

snippet sunday 🧸

i started in on the climax of hoa eddie and decided i have to write trans eddie, but instead of working on either one of those wips i started a new one?

from my next bad things happen fic, bone apple the teeth

When Eddie wakes up, he quickly notices that he is not in his comfortable bed with its silk sheets and fleece blanket and mound of pillows. Instead, he’s cramped in the backseat of a smelly car with shitty suspensions and a flat tire on the front passenger’s side.  He flips over onto his back and takes stock. His head is covered with something thick enough that no light penetrates and his hands have been zip-tied behind his back; sweat’s dried his hair to his face, sticky and stinky, and he’s missing both shoes and a sock.  He takes as deep of a breath as he can with his head covered and sighs. After a moment, other things filter in. The car’s moving fast, like they’ve got somewhere to go, and the radio’s turned low. Something like Metallica plays but Eddie can’t figure out the song, which irritates him worse than being kidnapped honestly.  Because that’s what’s happened. He’s been kidnapped.  He sighs again.  One of his kidnappers makes an ugly, choked noise. “You lyin’ bitch, Leo,” they say, nasally and congested. “I knew it was you that put the fork in the microwave and blamed it on Kevin. I knew it.”  “Suck my dick, Mark,” the other kidnapper—Leo, apparently—says. The car veers like the wheel’s been jerked; a couple of curse words later and Eddie belatedly realizes that it was, in fact, grabbed and pulled. “You tell a soul and I’m gonna take a shit in every single one of your shoes.”  “I only got three pair!”  He’s been kidnapped by a set of the most incompetent, annoying criminals to ever exist.  He sighs for a third time and rolls back over onto his side. Might as well sleep the drugs off some more while he waits for whatever they’ve got planned for him. 

tagged by @actualalligator, @devirnis, @honestlydarkprincess, @disasterbuckdiaz, @wildlife4life, @daffi-990, and @wikiangela <3

tagging @spagheddiediaz, @puppyboybuckley, @jeeyuns, @eddiebabygirldiaz, @watchyourbuck, and @monsterrae1 if any of you wanna share!

[fountainpenguin]

"'cuz half the time I can't love right, and I can't have sex and we both get quiet... Boy, I must be one f'd up guy ... It'll be fine- Quick, let's get married!" (x)

New Fairly OddParents 'fic today!

Rated T - 13k+ words

50 Words of Dale and Hadley

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🌃 City Lights AU

✨ More Fairly OddParents 'fics

🎲 Randomlists.com's 50-word generator

51. Connection - "Here, here- You hold Devin. Oh, look at his little feet... Have you got him? How's it feel?" "..."

50 scene snippets about two rich kids in Dimmsdale... and the newlywed life that came tumbling after.

OR, Dale and Hadley are doing their best. Maybe that can be enough.

(First 5 prompts under the cut)

- Blood warning (Hunting & field dressing a deer)

Saturday July 13th, 2002 - Sunday April 20th, 2014

Summer of the Last Berry - Spring of the Patient Lizard

1. Brown

None of the kids who'd worked the lemonade stand had brown eyes. Not like these ones, glassed over the way marbles shone. Life made its fortune in thin and fleeting things. Even the deer knew that. Dale loomed above it with his knife to watch its black tail quiver one last time. It died, probably, before it hit the ground. Soft summer grass bloomed beneath its snow-white neck patch. Crunchy leaves would make hunting 10 times harder when autumn lashed around. You could see the deer better through the trees, though. Hadley told him that on the drive up.

Sunlight striped the buck's bronze sides, which had thrummed in breath just seconds ago. Its eyes locked on skyward things. Had the deer gotten one last look at the sun before it tripped and fell? Or did it die in darkness, head in shadow while it grazed?

"That was close," said the girl beside him, leaning the gun against her shoulder. You could smell Dimmsdale pride straight on her. Dale flared his nostrils, breathing in the scent of blood and fur. And dirt, and morning's chill. Hadley patted his arm twice, her fingers warm even through his baggy sleeve. Mud and water splattered both hems of her camo pants. "But you really kept us in suspense. I thought you weren't going to shoot."

Those big, dark eyes…

2. Saw

Dale never hunted with his dad growing up. He wasn't old enough; it wasn't legal. But Hadley moved like a spider, following all her dad's field dressing instructions to the letter. After clean-up for the pictures, she jabbed her knife straight in the deer's stomach and drew it down the belly. Dark blood seeped out to the grass… and then came handfuls of goopy guts. Dale took every breath without blinking, but kept out of Hadley's way as she and her dad did their thing. Doug Dimmadome - his own dad - patted Dale twice on the shoulder.

"Now, that right there, son, is a thing of beauty. That's a Grade-A shot! Looks like you hit the brain. We'll make a hunter of you yet."

"Mmhm."

"Have you ever made an antler pen, Dale?" Mr. Leadly asked, running his thumb across one antler branch. They glimmered milky white. They looked funny where they sprouted from the head; you could see how tufts of fur bent to make way for giant forks.

"I haven't, sir." And, sensing this might be Leadly's way of turning the conversation to business, he followed that statement with, "Do you manufacture them for Pencil Nexus?"

Mr. Leadly beamed. Dale let out his breath. Good. I guessed right. When the man - short, but totally strong, and almost unrecognizable wearing camo instead of scalding yellow - motioned him over, Dale moved to stand above the deer. Blood and guts ran like water through Hadley's hands. Ew. She glanced up at Dale just long enough to smile and push that wild russet hair back from her eyes. Oh, she got that color from her mom, definitely- Not from Mr. Leadly. The way she wiped her fingers left a smear of blood across her cheek. Dale moved one hand to touch it, then stopped himself.

I'm not the babysitter anymore. She can do it herself. She peered up at him like a grim reaper decoration in the yard on Halloween. Uhhh. Dale hadn't seen a Halloween for 7 years.

He turned his silent stare to Leadly again. The man made another gesture with his hand to guide Dale's eyes to the dirtied antlers. "We don't sell many finished antler pens at my company; a couple personalized batches each year. I enjoy the process, but it's more of a hobby than a savvy business move. I can set you up with a pen-making kit; we sell plenty of those. You carve the antlers with a saw, and you need a lathe. Ever used one of those?"

"No, sir." Leadly's bright-eyed energy seemed to relax everyone- His dad, Hadley, and Leadly himself. Dale scratched his arm, avoiding face to face contact until he caught his breath. But when he did, he met Leadly eye to eye. "I'd love the opportunity to work with you. Can you teach me how to saw?"

The best opportunities in life hail from networking. For a Dimmadome, hunting with the Leadly family is never just about the hunt.

3. Addition

"That fits you pretty good," Hadley told him, looking his camo outfit up and down. Dale pulled his mouth from the waterfall just enough to see her reflection in the stream. Well… He tried to, at least, though water dribbled down his hair and stung his eyes. At least it tasted clean and fresh. It hadn't been this way underground. Stinky or salty- Those were your two options in the Dimmsdale tunnels. You always pick stinky if you can't take fresh. Dale blinked, wiping splatters off his cheeks.

"Oh, yeah… Your dad gave this to me. Don't you have a brother?"

"Yeah, two older ones." Hadley moved closer, reaching out to touch a wrinkle in his hat. "I'm glad you're putting it to use. My dad wanted to throw it all away."

"It fits great. I'm low on clothes right now."

"Do you want more? I mean, if you're going to use them, I can get them for you. They'd just get tossed if my dad gets his hands on them."

"… Okay. That sounds nice."

4. Numerous

"Oh, she was serious," Dale realized when the summer meet-up rolled around. Not much changed with Dimmsdale's traditions, evidently- The Fancy Schmancy Country Club had hosted this picnic every year since before he was born. Up on the hill, he had a pretty good view of Mr. Leadly's truck idling on the other side of the fence. He, Hadley, and Hadley's older sister - Harper - were unloading cardboard boxes of stuff from the back… and even from up here, Dale could read the giant labels. He set the plate aside and sprinted down to join them. Hadley, a huge box in hand, lurched back from the truck on wobbly legs. She'd dressed in pencil colors for this, just like her dad, but a desktop drinky bird would've fit the moment better.

"Whoa, whoa-"

"I got it." Dale caught the box's edge. He must've been too quiet running up, though, because Hadley jumped. The box slipped from her fingertips. Oops. Dale grabbed the corner and helped it down more gently. No damaged goods today. "Are these all clothes for me?" That's what the Sharpie scrawled across the side said. "No way… Is all this from your brothers?"

"Sure is! I collect stuff! It's a whole thing." Hadley thumped a second box on the ground, then flipped attention to Dale with a wolf-bite grin. "I've kept it for years because I wanted to wear it someday, but I don't think it'll ever fit. They're my half-brothers, and my mom's first husband was way taller. It shows. If the hunting gear fit you, everything here should too."

Dale tilted his head. April sunlight had washed away a long time ago; he wasn't fresh from the underground anymore. These days, the air tasted like ocean, bug spray, and water melon. He'd stocked his closet with enough outfits to get by (You could thank his dad's assistant for that). But everything she'd bought looked slick and classy… Lots of black, white, buttons, and shiny cufflinks. Bowties, too. Hadley'd worn a huge white bow on her chest for as long as Dale could remember, so she must be into that. Maybe I can pass mine to her sometime; fair exchange.

Or he could try to sell them off. Make some extra cash. That wouldn't be a bad idea, especially since Dad wouldn't let him have a credit card (even though he turned 16 back in May). If Dad disappeared someday like Mom had - so Dad claimed - then keeping his own cash on hand might be a lifesaver. The precariously perched Dimmsdale estate sat on a cliff out by the ocean, so… running back to Dad to ask for spare change wasn't super practical on a shopping day.

He'd probably make a mess if he pried the boxes open here on the sidewalk, but he could see an embroidered rocket peeking through the folded lid. His heart beat a little faster. I've NEVER had rocket clothes before…

"Thanks. Really. I'll put this stuff to use."

5. Reign

Okay, he'd admit it… Hadley reigned supreme in anime trivia. Still, she had NOTHING on his Crash Nebula know-how.

"You'd like my friend Timmy," she said, tossing her head in a laugh. "I think he won a Crash Nebula trivia contest on live TV or something? I should ask him!"

"Hey, any friend of Timmy's is a friend of mine." When he showed Dale his room, he had Crimson Chin comics on the bed and a Crash Nebula video game they'd played for ages until Dad was ready to take him home. The words sounded so cliché, but they made a lot of sense.

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