#this is just how this scene felt to me I fear

[somanyideassolittletime]

To be loved is to be changed.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary : 3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

Warnings: fluff, Jack is in love with his wife, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), so much fluff I felt giddy writing this.

Author's note: I love Jack so much, enjoy!

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is. 

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.” 

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime. 

 “Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?” 

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.” 

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day” 

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.” 

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now. 

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.” 

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.” 

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face. 

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin. 

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting). 

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain. 

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.” 

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it. 

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you. 

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one. 

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.  

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis. 

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight. 

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually. 

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone. 

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes. 

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind. 

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy. 

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day. 

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee. 

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order. 

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it. 

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it. 

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on. 

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order. 

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.” 

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him. 

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack. 

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room. 

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world. 

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever. 

+1

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you. 

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,” you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.  

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him. 

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.” 

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession. 

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.” 

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you. 

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.” 

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else. 

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission. 

Sid 0 - 1 Jack. 

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Oral [m/f] Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance]

[Tags: Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Note: This was originally a long one-shot but Tumblr's being difficult. So I've decided to break it down to phases. Part 2 to be posted soon.]

[Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Summer has always felt like a quiet promise to you. There’s something about the way the morning light slips through your curtains—soft and golden—that makes everything feel a little easier, even the things you keep inside. The heat never bothered you. It felt like warmth you could hold onto, like being hugged by the world when no one else could see you slipping.

Maybe that’s why summer became your favorite.

Or maybe it was him.

Because it was summer when you met Jeon Jeongguk.

You remember the sun that day—how it blazed unapologetically over the shoreline, how the heat curled around your ankles as you sat in the sand, watching yachts slice lazily through the water like moving sketches on a canvas of blue. The world felt slow, easy.

Until it didn’t.

A few feet away, he was there. Camera in hand, lens pointed right at you. Bold. Unapologetic. Not even pretending to look away when your eyes met his.

“What the hell? Are you seriously taking pictures of me right now?” you’d snapped, jumping to your feet, brushing sand off your shorts with all the anger a sixteen-year-old could manage. “Do you even get how creepy that is? You freaking pervert—”

“Wait—wait! No! It’s not like that!” he had stammered, hands raised like the camera was some weapon he never meant to pull. “It’s for a portfolio—college applications! I swear! I was just trying to catch the mix of people and nature, you just—uh—you fit into the scene—”

He’d fumbled with the camera strap, trying to explain between nervous laughs and rushed apologies.

And you? You were mortified. If the ocean had opened up right then, you would’ve let it pull you under without a fight.

But somehow — between his flustered panic and your still-burning anger — he said something about not even knowing if the picture turned out, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

That was the beginning.

That summer, Jeon Jeongguk became your best friend.

It was a summer night when everything smelled like pavement heat and distant jasmine, and all you wanted was to peel off your work clothes and melt into the couch. The kind of night where even your bones felt tired.

You hadn’t expected the light. Not the soft glow flickering from dozens of candles tucked across shelves and countertops, or the trail of flower petals curling like a secret through the apartment. It felt surreal—like walking into a dream set up by someone who had memorized all the quiet corners of your heart.

And then you saw him.

Jeongguk stood in the middle of the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how to breathe. He looked like a boy caught between fear and flight, only staying because he wanted this more than he feared the fall.

You blinked. Because for weeks—months—he’d been telling you about a girl.

The girl who made his chest tighten. The girl he wanted to impress without looking desperate. The girl he asked you about late into the night, as if your advice were gospel. And you, being his best friend, had answered every question with a brave smile and a cracking heart. You told him what flowers to bring, what not to say, how to read a moment without overstepping.

You played the part. You always did.

You had been there through all of it—those messy college years with coffee-stained notes and shared deadlines, the victory of your first job offers, the tiny celebrations and the quiet disappointments. You watched girls chase him and get turned away, every time.

And every time, he turned to you, his safe space.

“You’re just easier to talk to,” he’d say, kicking at the floor. “You get it.”

And maybe that’s when the lines began to blur.

You weren’t sure exactly when your chest started to tighten at the sound of his laughter. When his name, unspoken in your head, started to feel different. Maybe it was never a single moment. Maybe it was all of them, stitched together into something steady and impossible to ignore.

So that night, when you stepped into that room—into the flickering candlelight and the warmth he’d tried to contain—you thought, she’s coming. The girl he’s been talking about. He’s going to tell her everything.

You even turned to leave.

But then he said your name.

And three words that didn’t belong to anyone else. “I love you.”

At first, you stood frozen, trying to understand. Trying not to hope too hard.

Then he stepped closer, and from behind his back, he pulled a bouquet of tulips. Purple. Your favorite.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

And in that moment, the world quieted. Not in some big, movie-like way—but in that gentle, everyday pause when everything just feels right. Like letting out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You remember thinking, So this is what it feels like. To be chosen. To be seen without having to ask.

That summer, at twenty-one, with candlelight brushing his skin and tulips in your hands, your best friend had become something else entirely.

The love of your life.

The summer you had turned twenty-three, you expected nothing. Life was moving too fast to pause for birthdays.

Jeongguk had spent almost a year working toward a promotion to Creative Director, buried in late nights and never-ending deadlines. You had just quit your job— nervous but determined—to begin preparing for something bigger, taking over Seora company. Your mother had wanted to retire, and you, with your heart pounding, said yes to stepping into her place.

That year, you hadn’t made any big promises to each other. Just a quiet understanding. Takeout and sweatpants, maybe a quick kiss over leftovers, and the real celebration could wait until life calmed down.

So when Jeongguk texted you that afternoon, “Leaving work early. Be downstairs in ten,” you hadn’t expected much. You figured he’d forgotten a gift and was making up for it with a last-minute dinner somewhere quiet.

What you hadn’t expected was the way he grinned the second you opened the car door, eyes bright despite his exhaustion, hair slightly messy from the wind. Or the way he said, as soon as you settled in, “It’s going to be a long drive,” like he had a secret folded up in his chest.

You spent the first twenty minutes badgering him with questions, poking at his side at every red light, demanding clues. But he only laughed. Reached into the glove compartment. Pulled out your favorite snacks like weapons in an old, familiar war.

“Here,” he said, placing a candy bar in your hand. “Eat this and be quiet.”

It worked.

And somewhere between city roads and country silence, between the music humming low and the smell of tulips that hadn’t yet touched the air—you stopped trying to guess.

You didn’t expect the garden. Didn’t expect the burst of color in the middle of nowhere. The sunset lighting up each petal like it was meant to happen right then. You didn’t expect the table, softly set under hanging lights, or the quiet sound of your favorite song drifting through the air.

You hadn’t even known a place like this existed.

“Happy Birthday, my love.”

Jeongguk’s voice was gentle in your ear, his lips brushing your temple as his arm slipped lightly around your waist. Two years in, and somehow the sound of his soft nicknames still made you melt, still lit up something warm and tender in your chest. It was proof that the spark hadn’t faded. That time had only made it deeper, more real.

Dinner unfolded like something out of a dream, somewhere between romance and playful banter. You’d barely taken your first bite before launching into a full-on interrogation, bombarding your boyfriend with questions, how he found this place, when he had the time to pull it all off.

Jeongguk only laughed, stealing a bite of your food and shaking his head. “Just eat, baby. You ask too many questions.”

You smirked, leaning in as you wiped a bit of sauce from his lip with your thumb. “Look at you evolving. Feels like just yesterday you were panicking about how to flirt with a woman.”

His expression crumpled into mock outrage. “That was my first time! I was going to declare my undying love for you! Had to get it right for the perfect woman.”

That nervous boy, fumbling with his feelings and petal trails—it was hard to believe this confident man in front of you had ever stuttered through a sentence.

“You’re still so cheesy.”

“And you still love me,” The grin that followed, soft and certain.

“I do,” you whispered. “I love you, Gguk.”

By the time dinner was over, your stomach was full and your heart even more so. You leaned back in your chair, soaking in the breeze, the stars above, the warmth of his hand in yours.

Then came another surprise — a small birthday cake, carried over by one of the garden staff with quiet, careful steps. You raised a brow, laughing softly. “You already fed me dessert.”

“Can’t have a birthday without cake,” he said, already lighting the single candle. “Come on, make a wish, baby.”

You smiled, the flicker of the flame reflecting in his eyes. For a moment, everything slowed.

A safe home. A stable career. A loving partner. A healthy life.

What more could you ask for?

And yet, as your eyes fluttered shut, you wished anyway. Not for something new, but for this—this exact moment, this exact love—to last. And if change ever came, may it be the kind that blooms, never breaks.

You opened your eyes, ready to blow out the flame—

But what you saw wasn’t the candle anymore.

Jeongguk. Down on one knee. A ring shinning between his fingers. Eyes locked on yours, trembling, hopeful, sure.

“That day you called me out for being a stalker?” his voice wavered slightly, his smile laced with nostalgia. “That was actually the happiest day of my life.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It was the day I met you. You were yelling at me, face all red. I honestly thought you were going to explode.” He let out a breathy laugh. “But there I was—sixteen, camera in hand—completely mesmerized by this girl who didn’t even know she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting. Your hair was flying with the wind, and your eyes… they looked like the galaxies. The sun hit just right, and you—” He paused, eyes softening. “You looked like the start of something.”

Your chest clenched, but in the best way. You tried not to smile too hard. Tried not to cry. Tried not to melt under the memory he was bringing to life.

“That day marked the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he added, his voice gentler now. “One I never thought would turn into this.”

Your fingers were damp with sweat; you quietly wiped them on the back of your dress, hoping to steady yourself.

Jeongguk’s words kept flowing, low and sincere.

“You stood by me when I had nothing figured out. When I failed, when I fell short, when I let things get to me—like that time I cried over failing an exam, or losing my camera bag like the world was ending—” he chuckled, and you did too, tears prickling now from laughter and longing all at once.

“You were just always there. You were my calm. My constant.” He looked at you with such deep care it almost ached. “And you cheered me on through everything. Even the small wins—like that two-hundred-dollar incentive I got from pitching that campaign.”

You laughed again, that memory coming back in crisp detail. Jeongguk had burst into your office, practically bouncing, holding up his bonus slip like it was a golden ticket. He hugged you so tight he nearly lifted you off the floor.

Those small wins… they had felt like the peak of the world back then. Not because of the money, but because you’d been in them together.

And just when you thought your heart couldn’t take more—

“You know me better than I know myself,” Jeongguk said, voice steady but eyes a little too bright. “When I can’t figure out which tie to wear, or what shoes go with my pants, you pick them out instantly. And just like that, everything feels easier. You always look after me. Even when you’re tired. Even before we got together, you were already putting me first.”

He reached for your hand then, softly, like he could sense the storm inside you. And oh, how it churned—your stomach tight, your breath uneven.

“I know you think I’ve done the same for you,” he continued. “That I’ve made you my priority too. And I have. Always have. Always will. But deep down…” he swallowed, thumb brushing over your knuckles, “I still feel like I could do more. As your husband. If you let me.”

You froze, your pulse loud in your ears. You told yourself to stay calm—but they gave you away, trembling against his warm hands.

“Today is for your wishes,” he said softly, drawing you closer. “But I have one of my own.”

And just like that, your world shifted.

“I want to be your husband. Your forever partner. To love you endlessly, for as long as time will allow. Will you marry me?”

Tears spilled before you could stop them. Your voice wouldn’t come, not at first. But your body answered for you—nodding quickly, sinking to your knees, wrapping your arms around him like you’d just found the safest place in the world.

He laughed—half breathless, half crying—and pulled back just enough to cup your face.

“W-wait, babe, I need to hear you say it,” he whispered, grinning so wide it almost hurt to look at. “You’re saying yes, right? This is real?”

“Yes,” you finally breathed. “Yes, Gguk. I’ll marry you. I love you. I love you so much.”

Jeongguk threw his head back with a yell of pure, unfiltered joy. It echoed into the tulip fields like a promise. “I can’t wait to call you my Mrs. Jeon,” he beamed. “Or—hell—I’ll take your name. As long as you’re mine forever.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t delicate. It was wild, eager, soaked in love. You tasted it in every press of his lips—every wave crashing into you like a vow unspoken.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured again, forehead to yours, as the tulips swayed around you like they, too, were celebrating.

The sun dipped a little lower, casting gold across his skin. You thought time might stop for you both, just for a while.

And somewhere in the soft drift of laughter and love, you found yourselves in another season, another golden evening—one where the air smelled like grilled food and summer fireworks, and Jeongguk’s hand was laced with yours under a different kind of sky.

The following summer, on the day you turned twenty-four, the world felt still in the best possible way.

You and Jeongguk had come a long way since that quiet birthday dinner in the tulip garden. What once felt like a distant dream—building a life together while chasing your own ambitions—was slowly becoming reality.

Jeongguk had earned the promotion he worked tirelessly for, settling into his new role with newfound ease. The stress that once creased his forehead had begun to fade. And you, with steady determination, took over at Seora, walking the path your mother had gently prepared for you.

Everything started to fall into place. The late nights, the risks, the struggles—they all suddenly felt worth it.

You moved out of the tiny apartment that once held all your early memories and into a house that reflected how far you’d come. It was larger than you needed, tucked away in a quiet compound, but it was yours. Every corner felt like a fresh page.

Jeongguk had picked your birthday for the wedding. “It’s poetic,” he once said, lightly running his finger along your palm. “I get to celebrate the day you were born and the day you chose to stay with me forever.”

And he truly meant it. That choice—so thoughtful and deliberate—wasn’t just romantic. It was the kind of gift you’d hold in your heart always, something only he could give you.

And so, that summer day became more than just a birthday celebration.

It became the beginning of something timeless.

The air smelled of sea salt and lavender as the ocean breeze drifted through the half-open window of the bridal suite.

Your dress shifted softly with each breeze. Light ivory silk with thin layers of tulle that floated like water. The bodice hugged you just right, with lace stitched in soft, wave-like patterns that reminded you of all those summers by the Busan shore. A short train gathered behind you like a memory waiting to happen. Your hair was pulled back in a loose, low twist, with a small pearl comb set gently above your ear.

You had been ready for over an hour. And still… you waited.

A gentle knock broke the quiet.

Hobi’s familiar face peeked into the room, his voice warm. “Ready, Mrs. Soon-To-Be Jeon?”

You tried to smile. Tried. “Hey.”

He stepped inside, practically shaking with unspoken feelings. “You look stunning,” he said, placing a hand to his chest. “Like, Jeongguk-is-gonna-lose-it stunning.”

You laughed, barely. Your fingers kept picking at the hem of your dress. “Hobi…”

“Yeah?”

“What if this… changes everything?”

The question hung in the room like fog. He paused, eyes gentle as he stepped toward you.

“What if we ruin it?” you whispered. “What we had. What we have. We've always been best friends first. What if marriage breaks that?”

He walked over and sat beside you at the edge of the dresser bench. Without hesitation, he took your hand — grounding, warm, familiar. His thumb traced slow circles against your skin.

“You’re scared love might erase the friendship."

You nodded. “Or twist it into something we can’t come back from. What if we lose what made us, us?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with the kind of knowing only someone who had seen every chapter could offer. “You know what I see when I look at you and Jeongguk?” he said at last. “Two people who always find their way back. Every detour, every almost. You always chose each other, even before you knew you were choosing.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you, soft and a little unsteady.

“And listen,” Hobi continued, gently but firm. “Love didn’t come to take the place of friendship. It grew from it. You really think that’s something that falls apart easily?”

You shook your head slowly.

“No,” he said. “It’s the strongest kind. You’re not losing anything today. You’re building something new — on top of everything that already made you strong.”

And in that moment, something eased in your chest. Just a little. Just enough.

You finally smiled. This time, it reached your eyes. “How’d I get lucky with you as my man of honor-slash-wedding planner-slash-therapist?”

He grinned, already misty-eyed. “No idea. But I’m billing you later.”

The sun dipped low not long after, golden light spilling over Gwangalli. Purple tulips arched overhead at the altar, swaying gently as the sea whispered behind them.

A hush settled over the small crowd as soft music started. You stepped into sight.

And Jeongguk — waiting at the end of the aisle — looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His lips parted, eyes wide and bright, hands shaking just enough to make yours start to tremble too.

You walked to him, everything else falling away. He let out a breathless laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

The officiant’s voice faded into the background — because your hearts had already started speaking.

When it was time for the vows, Jeongguk reached for your hands. His grip was warm, steady, even as tears swelled in his lashes.

“I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with you,” he began, voice thick. “Because it wasn’t just one moment. It was all of them. Every inside joke, every late-night walk, every time you looked at me and saw more than I thought I was. Every dumb argument about ramen flavors.” A soft wave of laughter rose from the guests. “You were my best friend before anything else. You still are. And I promise, no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You could barely breathe. Still, you found the strength to speak.

“I never imagined we’d end up here,” you said, voice trembling, “but I’m so grateful we did. You’ve seen every part of me — even the ones I tried to hide — and loved me anyway. I promise to keep choosing you. Even when you leave your ridiculous toe socks all over the house.” More laughter. More tears. “I vow to be your rock, your hope, your home. I’m thankful for every moment we’ve shared and every one we’ve yet to live. I love you — always and forever.”

The officiant didn’t even get to finish. “You may now—”

Jeongguk was already moving, hands cradling your face as he kissed you. Soft. Sure. Fierce with every vow spoken and every one unspoken.

The applause, the waves, the music — all of it disappeared.

There was only you and him.

Still standing. Still choosing.

The night folds around you both like a velvet ribbon — warm, private, endless.

You hardly remember making it to the suite — just bits and pieces. His hand holding yours a little too tightly. The soft thump of your bodies pressing into the door as it closed behind you. The way Jeongguk looked at you like you were his whole world — eyes wide, a little out of breath, his smile unsteady with all the feelings he was struggling to hold in.

You’re laughing when he scoops you into his arms — a clumsy, chaotic lift that has you squealing.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he says, voice rough with awe as he carries you to the bed. The words spill out messy and honest — pure, aching truth. “Finally. All mine.”

He sets you down like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. You’re still laughing, fingers skimming the strong line of his jaw, then the chain of his necklace as it disappears into the hollow of his throat. His pupils are blown wide when he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth — slower this time, savoring.

It feels like the kiss from the ceremony never ended. Like it just melted into this one — deeper, heavier.

“You’re staring,” you tease softly when you pull back, trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Can you blame me?”

His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing small, careful circles against the silky fabric of your dress. He’s trembling slightly, you realize — a tremor in him, delicate and charged, like he’s terrified of doing this wrong.

You brush his hair back from his forehead. “We can go slow,” you whisper. “We have all night.”

His answering smile is boyish, crooked, devastating. “No,” he says, tugging you closer until your noses brush again. “We have forever.”

When you finally pull him down onto the bed with you, there’s a flurry of limbs and laughter — the kind of ridiculous tangle that only happens when two best friends try to be lovers and forget, for a moment, how to breathe.

“Wait, wait,” Jeongguk’s laughing into the crook of your neck as he fumbles with his jacket, then your dress. “I’m doing this wrong. I had a plan. It was a very sexy plan.”

You giggle, breathless, reaching for the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. “We’re not doing plans tonight.”

“No plans,” he agrees, voice low and giddy, “just... you.”

He kisses you again, harder now, a little clumsy from how much he wants you. His hands map every inch of you they can reach — shoulders, arms, waist — like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this time, the stakes are different. Higher.

When he finally peels your dress from your shoulders, he moves slow. Painfully slow. Like unwrapping a gift he’s dreamt about but never thought he could touch. His fingers ghost down your skin, his gaze drinking you in like he’s starving.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear. His voice is thick, frayed at the edges. His hands shake when he cups your face again, grounding himself with your skin.

“You’re not wearing the socks, are you?” The tease slips out before you can stop it.

Jeongguk snorts against your shoulder, biting gently at your skin in retaliation. “Married five hours and you’re already picking on me.”

“I love your dumb socks,” you promise through a breathless laugh.

He hums, trailing kisses down the slope of your shoulder. “Yeah, well. Tonight, I’m wearing nothing but you.”

The teasing fades into something quieter when he lays you back against the pillows, his body covering yours, warm and solid. You feel every place he touches, every place he doesn’t, like they’re marked on your skin. His mouth moves slowly, in awe — kisses pressed to your chest, the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your hips. Wherever his lips go, his hands follow — stroking, coaxing, making you feel it all.

And God, you do. You feel everything.

You arch into him instinctively, a soft, helpless sound slipping from your lips. His breath stutters at the noise, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you — really look at you.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says. His voice is raw, scraped-down, stripped of anything but restraint. “I’ll stop. Anytime. Anything.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper back. You cup his face in both hands, thumb tracing the soft curve of his bottom lip. “I want you.”

A low sound — almost a whimper — slips from him then, and he nods, lowering himself until every inch of him is pressed against you. His hips shift against yours, experimental, a little awkward.

You both gasp.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, burying his face against your shoulder. “Okay. We’re... figuring this out.”

You laugh again, breathless and deliriously happy. You tilt your hips, guiding him, and he groans — grateful, needy.

The first time is clumsy, achingly sweet. There are moments you miss each other, teeth knocking, soft curses murmured between kisses. But there’s laughter too, and whispered encouragements, and the kind of heat that comes from knowing someone so deeply, so completely, that the vulnerability feels natural — like breathing. Like coming home.

“You’re doing so good, baby."

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, “say it again.”

You smile against his skin, wrapping your arms tighter around him. “You’re doing so good, Gguk.”

He moves with you, guided by instinct and the quiet understanding you’ve built over years together. Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky moan feels like a new promise — I love you. I want you. I’m yours.

When you both finally fall apart, it’s not with fireworks or grand declarations. It’s quiet, almost sacred — his name on your lips, yours on his, whispered like prayers into each other’s mouths.

Jeongguk refuses to let you go. His arms band around you, tight and unyielding, even as your skin cools and the room settles into a sleepy hush.

“You’re my best friend,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your chin. “And now you’re my wife. How the fuck did I get so lucky?”

You smile, heart so full it aches. “Guess you’re stuck with me... forever.”

He grins against your skin, already half-asleep. “Good. I never wanted to be anywhere else.”

You reach for the blanket draped over the chair, wrapping it around yourself like a shield — or maybe a memory. A soft, bittersweet smile touches your lips as a gentle warmth fills you.

The laughter that muffled into pillows, the way he used to look at you like the world disappeared when you walked into a room. You think of those tangled nights in bed, when wanting each other turned into something deeper, where you'd both go again and again — not for pleasure, but to prove, in the only language you both spoke fluently back then, who loved the other more.

You close your eyes.

And for a moment, you're back there.

You remember the second you stepped through that door. How everything else had faded away.

The house had felt alive somehow, even in its quiet—sunlight spilled generously through the wide windows, the air tinged with fresh paint and the sea salt that clung to Busan’s breeze. It had been perfect. Everything you two dreamed of and bled yourselves dry to build.

You could see it all—lazy mornings tangled in white linen, coffee still warm in hand as the waves crashed just beyond the terrace. No urgent calls from both your jobs in Seoul. No blinking notifications. Just this. Him. The two of you, in your own little world.

You hadn't meant to cry, but of course you did. A single, stupid tear betraying you the moment the front door clicked shut behind you.

Jeongguk noticed before you could pretend. "My love," he’d murmured, pulling you close, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. "We did it."

You nodded, burying your face against his shoulder, breathing in the comfort you always found there. "We really did."

He kissed your forehead like he was sealing it in—this moment, this house, this dream you’d both chased until your feet bled. For that second, there was no future to fear. Just him, his hand in yours, and a home filled with quiet hope.

But of course, Jeongguk couldn’t stay soft for long.

"You know we have to break it in," he’d murmured against your lips, eyes already dark with intent.

You’d laughed, pulling back slightly to raise an eyebrow. "Already? We’ve been here for five minutes."

He smirked, cocky and shameless. "Five minutes too long. Been thinking about fucking you in this house since the day we signed the deed."

Your fingertips tailed down his neck. “Don’t remember signing up for this version of you.”

“Maybe I’ve been holding back. Maybe you just bring out the braver side of me.”

You remember how you shoved him playfully in the chest, only for him to catch your wrists and spin you against the wall, pinning you there with his hips. You’d felt him, already hard, pressing between your thighs through your clothes, and it set something wild sparking in your veins.

Your breath hitched. That grin—the wicked one that meant trouble—lit up his whole face. "Obsessed," you murmured.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. "With my wife? Always."

You slipped away, dancing into the kitchen with a smirk. Jeongguk followed like a man chasing salvation, jeans already undone, tattoos on display as he stalked toward you.

"You think you love me more than I love you?" you called over your shoulder, hopping onto the counter.

"Baby," he said darkly, eyes trailing over your body like a promise. "I know I do."

"Then prove it."

He’s between your thighs in an instant, hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow—and you want them. His mouth crashes onto yours again, messy and heated, stealing every ounce of air from your lungs. His hands work with urgency, tugging at your clothes, until your blouse and bra hit the floor and his tongue is tracing the swell of your breast like he’s worshipping you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum. “So mine.”

You tug at his shirt, yanking it over his head, nails raking down his tattooed arms. “Still waiting for the proof, Gguk,” you whisper against his jaw.

He growls again. Real. Feral. Sinks to his knees in front of you like you’re something holy. His hands slide under your skirt, shoving it up, baring you completely. The first sweep of his tongue over your core makes you gasp, your head tipping back, hand flying to his hair. He groans into you, like just the taste of you is enough to ruin him.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he rasps against your soaked skin.

You tighten your thighs around his head, breathless. “Make me.”

And he does.

His mouth is relentless, tongue and lips working you until you’re writhing on the countertop, whimpering his name like a prayer.

But you’re stubborn. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you surrender. Not yet.

When you finally yank him up by his hair and drag his mouth back to yours, he tastes like you—filthy, desperate—and you wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against him through his jeans.

“You need me that bad, babe?”

“Need you always,” he pants, fumbling with his jeans, too wild to care about anything but being inside you. When he finally pushes into you, it’s fast, almost rough with need, and you both groan—loud and raw—as he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he hisses, forehead pressed to yours as he thrusts deep, slow, savoring every inch. “No one... no one loves you like I do.”

You moan into his mouth, biting his lower lip, nails digging into his back as you meet his thrusts, desperate to match him, desperate to win.

“We’ll see about that,” you whisper fiercely, clenching around him just to hear him whimper.

And he does—beautiful and broken—and it spurs you both on, the pace rough and messy, your moans filling the empty house like a chorus. By the time the sun dips lower, you’ve christened the kitchen counter, the living room sofa, the hallway wall. You’re both half-dressed, half-wild, bruised and kissed within an inch of your lives.

When he finally collapses onto the bed with you tangled in his arms, sweaty and wrecked, Jeongguk still doesn’t let go.

“You,” he whispers hoarsely, voice wrecked from moaning your name too many times. “You’re it for me. Always.”

You press your lips to the center of his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. “Then you better be ready to spend forever proving it.”

His laugh was ragged, but full. "I’ll spend my whole life proving it."

And you believed him. Of course you did.

Because in that house, in that life—you’d been sure you were winning. Together.

Somewhere beyond the walls of your home, Seoul moves on without you – light rain falling in the garden, leaves moving in the breeze, the faint sound of a gate opening somewhere in the compound. In the distance, you heard a neighbor’s dog bark, a car door close.

But in here, everything was still. Silent.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the quiet ache you didn’t dare name. Either way, your mind slipped, without meaning to, back to another time.

A warmer time.

You could still feel it if you closed your eyes—the sunlight in Busan, the salt on your skin, the weight of Jeongguk’s body against yours, the way he had looked at you like there was no one else in the universe. The way he laughed when you challenged him. The way he kissed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The memory came back easily. His hands on your waist, the two of you laughing, you playfully refusing to let him have his way even as he kissed every bit of you against the kitchen counter.

You smiled faintly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb.

It felt like another lifetime now. Like it had happened to different people.

The quiet pressed heavier on your chest, so you let yourself sink further, slipping into an old memory you hadn’t visited in a long time.

Somewhere in the middle of Seoul, in a small, cozy restaurant he loved because they made the kimchi just like his mother’s.

You had been picking at your bibimbap when Jeongguk put down his chopsticks, cleared his throat dramatically, and leaned across the table with that wide, mischievous grin that always meant trouble.

“Wife,” he said grandly, ignoring the side-eye from the ajumma at the next table.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yes, husband?”

He held out his hand like he was about to make a toast at some royal event. “I have a very important statement to make.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh. “Right now? In the middle of lunch?”

“Very serious. Life-altering.” His eyes were shining. Boyish. So in love it almost hurt to look at him.

With an an exaggerated sigh, you set down your spoon. “Fine. I’m listening.”

He straightened, cleared his throat again—overdoing it just to make you roll your eyes—and then said, with theatrical seriousness. "I do promise you, Mrs. Jeon, that no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw sweetness of it.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. Was just looking at you, like he was falling for you all over again.

Your heart stuttered. Then, quick as a snap, you leaned across the table and flicked his forehead.

“Ow!” He jerked back, clutching his forehead dramatically. "This is why people write their vows once and never bring them out again!”

“You’re lucky you're cute."

He pouted, rubbing at his forehead like you’d truly injured him. “See if I ever get sappy with you again.”

Laughter bubbled up, warmth blooming in your chest, your cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “Please. Nothing’s going to change with you until the kids are running around the house. Maybe even until they grow up. You’ll be that embarrassing dad crying at every school event.”

Discussing children felt natural. Familiar. Without even needing to plan, you both held an unspoken promise that when the time came, you’d face it together, ready to give all your love. Even mundane things—like folding laundry—turned into whispered conversations about baby names, arguments over whose genes would dominate.

Jeongguk groaned like you’d stabbed him. "God, you're right. I’m doomed. Gonna be that dad with the 'I love my kid' bumper stickers all over the car. Jeongguk Jr. or Little Ha-yun will have to live with it.”

"Bet you’re going to come up with matching shirts,"

He pointed his chopsticks at you. "If I ever show up in a 'World’s Best Dad' T-shirt, it's on you."

You laughed until your sides hurt, while he just stared at you, like you were the answer to a prayer he hadn’t known he was whispering.

The memory dissolved as the cold, damp present crept back in.

The rain soaks into the loose weave of your sweater, the tea now forgotten and stone-cold in your hands. The hedges bent low under the weight of water. The petals of the camellias you once planted together lay bruised against the earth.

Absently, you pulled your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up in the muted gray light.

The wedding photo stared back at you. Frozen in time.

There you were, standing with Jeongguk at the altar, laughter bubbling from your lips, his hand linked firmly with yours. His eyes had been impossibly bright that day—full of promises that felt too big, too boundless to ever fade.

You traced the outline of his face on the screen with a trembling finger, wishing you could reach through the glass. Wishing you could fold yourself back into that moment. Hold onto that feeling just a little longer. Maybe if you had clung tighter, believed harder, things wouldn’t have slipped away.

Change is something no one can escape. You knew that well—everyone does.

Still, when it came, it hit hard at thirty, turning you and Jeongguk into strangers.

The rare mornings you find him in the kitchen, he walks past you on the way to the coffee maker. Casual vows exchanged easily over meals, had turned into clipped, tired arguments about who forgot to take out the trash. Whose turn it was to restock the empty egg tray.

You knew when everything changed. You wish you hadn’t.

You knew the exact moment Jeongguk stopped seeing you as the light in his life. When his love for you became a burden, he didn't know how to carry anymore.

You wished you could erase that night. Wished that when he chose you, it hadn't come with the weight of resentment that now lived between you.

Just because he had chosen you.

When the hospital room spun in blinding, sterile white. When the machines screamed warnings and the doctors begged for a decision—he chose you.

He chose you over Ha-yun.

And in some cruel twist of fate, you survived while your daughter didn’t.

You pressed your forehead against your knees, curling tighter on the rain-damp bench. The garden blurred into a smear of color and gray.

The life you had once imagined for the three of you—Jeongguk’s hand around a tiny fist, your laughter filling the house—died the same night she did. And no matter how much he smiled at you after, no matter how tightly he held you while you cried, a wall had already been built between you. Thick. Unscalable. Brick by agonizing brick.

You were no longer his home. You were his reminder of what’s been lost.

It didn’t begin with shouting. It began in the quiet — in the half-finished conversations, the way his hand hesitated before touching your back, the way you stopped asking, just to spare yourself the disappointment.

Then came the nights where he didn't come home at all.

Like that night.

You had only wanted for him to stand beside you. To support you. To be proud of you again. To be that husband who believed his wife would conquer anything if she puts her heart into it.

But even then, you were already losing him.

"Tomorrow’s the contract signing for the Tuan partnership. Hope you can be there. Eomma’s expecting you to," your voice was careful, like walking a thin line that could snap any second.

You wiped your makeup off mechanically at the dresser, your eyes catching his reflection.

His back was turned to you, the bathroom light glowing behind him as he tugged over his shirt.

The distance between you wasn't just physical. It hadn't been for a long time.

"It’s just a contract signing," His tone’s cold, almost bored.

The words stung more than they should have. More than you let on.

Jeongguk knew the weight of this partnership for you. It was more than another business move. It would be a stepping stone to expand your mother’s clothing line to Europe. Tuan Elegante had years of experience in the fashion world. Their reach was global, with a million-dollar-selling line in Italy and Paris. You and your mother had dreamed about this for as long as you could remember.

Yet here was your husband, treating the conversation, like it revolved around what to buy on the next grocery errand.

“It’s not just another event, Gguk.” You held the cotton pad a little too tight, blinking fast to hold back the sting. “I want you there.”

He didn’t turn around. Of course he didn’t.

"And do what exactly?" he muttered, pulling his towel off the hook. "Play the perfect husband? Show off a perfect marriage? Smile for the cameras so they have more to gossip about? Like they haven’t torn our lives apart enough already.”

Your throat burned, but you forced yourself to stay steady. "Could’ve just said no," you mumbled. "I would’ve understood. No need to be such a dick about it."

"I did say no. More than once." The towel hit the floor with a dull thud. "You just never fucking listen."

You whirled on him then, anger rising sharp and fast. “Maybe I was hoping. Hoping that you’d still care enough to show up. That you’d still want to stand by me.”

His laugh was bitter, mocking. "You really think standing next to you in a room full of strangers will fix this?"

"This isn't about fixing anything!" You cried, voice cracking. "This is about you showing up! Being there for once, instead of finding another excuse to stay away!"

Jeongguk’s face twisted, rage flashing for just a second before something else — something worse — flickered behind his eyes.

"You’re not even supposed to be working yet," he bit out. "Dr. Min told you to rest. Told you not to push yourself. But no, you’re back at it again, throwing yourself into work like it’ll patch up everything you lost."

"Don’t," you whispered, chest heaving. "Don’t you dare put that on me."

He shook his head, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. "You never knew when to stop. Even when it meant risking everything."

"Losing Ha-yun wasn’t on me," you said, barely above a whisper. "You had a choice that night. Be a father, or stay my husband. You chose."

Pain twisted across his face, raw and sharp. "If you had just—" he started, voice rising, but he broke off, breathing hard. " If you had just looked after yourself better—”

"Say it," you snapped, fists trembling at your sides. "Say it. Say you blame me."

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t deny it either.

The silence between you was loud enough to drown everything else out.

“If you regret it that much,” Your words trembled, "then maybe you should have let me go that night."

"Never said I regretted it.”

“Yet you can’t even look at me like you love me anymore."

That was what hurt the most. Not the anger. Not the fighting. The absence. The part of him that had once looked at you like you were the sun shined bright on a new hopeful morning.

Jeongguk stared at you for a long moment — then turned away.

“I’m going out,” he said. Cold. Detached. As if you were nothing more than a ghost. Grabbing his wallet and phone off the nightstand, not sparing you another glance, he leaves the room. Leaves you behind.

Sleep was impossible when tears drowned any chance for you to rest. The argument from earlier echoed in your mind, like a song stuck on loop. 1:00 AM. 2:00 AM. 3:00 AM. You stared at the clock, each tick mocking you. Your heart sank every passing hour.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? The silence weighed heavily in the room, your anxiety only growing. Daylight crept through the curtains, a reminder that sleep was futile. You tossed and turned, anxiety gripping you about the big event today. Preparations demanded your focus.

Arguments with Jeongguk had piled up since you both lost Ha-yun. You'd lost track of how many. Yet, he always found his way back home. You lay side by side, even with the chill creating distance. But tonight was different.

You woke up to an empty side of the bed. Cold and untouched sheets lay there, unwrinkled – a reminder of the restless night you had endured. As you prepared to leave for work, Jeongguk returned from a long night. His presence felt heavy. The harsh words from the previous night loomed over you.

Fear gnawed at you. A reality you wanted to escape. You didn’t want this to become your new routine but you knew this was a change you had to bear with from now on.

Stepping back inside the house, your heart sinks at the sight of another untouched dinner on the table. Candles burned low, wine glasses untouched, the dinner you spent hours preparing now rests cold and forgotten under the soft glow of the kitchen lights.

Still, a tiny, stubborn part of you dares to hope.

You glance at your phone. 11:40 PM. There’s still time.

Maybe — just maybe — Jeongguk would walk through the door, the way he used to.

Maybe he’d see everything you put together, maybe he’d smile, call you ‘baby’ in that soft, lazy way, maybe he'd pull you into his arms like no time had passed at all.

Maybe you’d sit together and talk about meaningless things — which coffee you picked up that morning, the weather, the fact that you were both overdue for another Marvel marathon even though you could quote every line.

Maybe, for just a little while, you could pretend the distance hadn’t swallowed you whole.

You set your phone down, pressing your hands against the table to steady yourself.

But hope is cruel when it has nowhere left to go. It eats at you — a sick reminder of everything you've lost. Because if your marriage were still alive, you wouldn't need to hope so hard. You wouldn’t be left pleading to the universe for scraps of what once came so easily.

Years have passed since you and Jeongguk celebrated your wedding anniversary, and your birthday. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated his birthday either. Life has often pulled you both in different directions, especially back when your careers were just starting to build up.

But somehow, even through the chaos, you'd find your way back to each other. Maybe after dancing barefoot in the kitchen, maybe falling asleep mid-conversation, but you’d end the day in each other’s arms

That terrible night was a constant reminder that forgetting these moments was part of the change you didn’t want to face.

The first anniversary after it all fell apart, you got a text. 'Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday.' No ‘love you.’ No pet names. Not even a damn emoji to soften the blow. Just a clinical message from the man who once promised you forever.

Chuseok later in the year came with another lifeless apology. ‘Sorry, can’t make it.’ No explanation, no efforts to make it right. You faced both your families alone that night, forcing smiles, while you quietly fell apart. Scrambled up with excuses to keep them in the dark. To preserve the illusion that their children were still wrapped in that perfect little bubble of an unbreakable love.

Christmas was worse. No calls. No messages. Just a note on the fridge in his rushed handwriting, ‘Will be back late. Don’t wait up.’

And when New Year's came, a foolish hope lit up inside you once more.

Breakfast together — the first in months — and when you asked him to have dinner at Namsan Tower, he said yes.

You clung to that ‘yes’ like a lifeline. You believed.

But belief is brutal when it betrays you.

Because you sat there, alone at a table for two, staring at the unopened bottle of wine and the empty seat across from you.

The fireworks exploded outside the window, showering Seoul in glittering light. The restaurant staff cheered, kissed, laughed.

And you… you cried into your hands, wishing the year could just swallow you whole.

Now, the clock ticks mercilessly toward midnight.

12:00 AM. Another year gone. Another anniversary forgotten. Another birthday abandoned. You pull out a chair and sink down, the untouched meal staring back at you like a cruel joke.

Cruel, how the day you chose him as much as life chose you, has become a reminder of how much you can hold in your heart — and how easily it can break.

“Happy anniversary. Happy birthday to me.”

[jessiso]

"Triage"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Aaron Hotcher x Fem! Reader

After you're shot in the field, Hotch is overwhelmed with guilt and finally confesses his feelings while you’re unconscious—terrified he’s lost you for good.

cw: injury, hospital scenes, guilt, emotional intensity, angst to comfort

w/c 945 (short n angsty)

...

The sirens blurred into the background, swallowed by the blood pounding in his ears.

“Aaron, you’re not cleared to go in there—”

He didn’t hear them. Couldn’t. His eyes were locked on the stretcher being wheeled toward the waiting ambulance.

He saw the hand hanging limply off the side. The blood-soaked vest. The fingers he’d memorized the feel of but never dared to touch for too long.

Yours.

“Agent Hotchner!” a paramedic barked. “We need to move—are you riding with us?”

He nodded numbly, clambering in. His knee hit the side of the gurney, and he didn't even register the pain. His eyes searched your face—ghostly pale, streaked with dirt and blood.

The medic was shouting vitals, adjusting oxygen flow. He kept asking questions about your response, your pupils, your pain levels.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

And Aaron felt his world tilt.

He should’ve been the one to clear the house. He’d assigned teams. He’d made the call. He should’ve known the suspect wasn’t alone. Should’ve seen the signs. Should’ve sent someone else.

Anyone but you.

This was his fault.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and fear.

JJ brought him coffee. He didn’t touch it.

Morgan sat beside him, silent.

Reid paced, chewing on his thumbnail.

But Aaron just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth, eyes fixed on the double doors the doctors had disappeared behind.

It’d been forty-seven minutes.

Forty-seven minutes of remembering how your body had looked sprawled on that kitchen floor.

How you’d gasped for air as he pressed his hands to your side. How your blood had soaked into his sleeves.

“She lost a lot of blood,” the medic had said. “We're lucky you got here when you did.”

Lucky.

Aaron had never felt so utterly, cosmically unlucky in his life.

“Hotch?”

He blinked. JJ again, her hand on his shoulder.

“They said she’s out of surgery. Stable. But she’s not awake yet.”

“Can I see her?”

JJ hesitated. “They said… only one person for now. And only family.”

He was on his feet before she could finish.

“I am family,” he said, voice low and final.

Machines beeped steadily, a quiet symphony of survival.

You looked smaller in the hospital bed.

Fragile in a way he’d never seen.

Tubes snaked from your arms. A thick bandage wrapped around your middle. The doctor had said you’d lost nearly a third of your blood volume. They’d repaired the damage, but the healing would take time.

You hadn't opened your eyes.

Aaron sat beside the bed, his hand hovering over yours.

He wanted to hold it. Wanted to press it to his chest and beg you to squeeze, to do something to show him he hadn’t already lost you.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve had your six.”

The monitors kept their rhythm.

The only reply.

“I sent you in because I trusted you. Because I know how good you are. But I… I keep wondering if part of me did it because I knew you’d say yes. Because you never say no when I ask something of you.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. His voice shook when he said, “You always show up for me. And I got you shot.”

Silence again.

He finally let his fingers brush yours. They were cold.

“Don’t make me lose you,” he said, eyes burning. “I never told you what you mean to me. Don’t make me carry that.”

...

Your eyes opened groggily and heavy, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light.

Pain throbbed in your side. You tried to shift and hissed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“Hey—hey, stay still.”

You knew that voice. Even before your eyes fully focused.

Hotch.

His hand gripped yours now—tight, warm, grounding.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

You licked your lips. “You… okay?”

He let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. “You got shot and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

You gave the smallest smile. “Didn’t… wanna worry you.”

“You always worry me,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Every time we go into the field. Every time I see you in danger.”

You blinked up at him. “Aaron…?”

His hand trembled as it cradled yours. “I should’ve said this before. I’ve been too careful. Too afraid. But when I saw you on that floor… I thought I’d lost my chance.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I love you.”

Silence stretched between you—thick with pain and promise.

You blinked again, slower this time.

“Thought I was dreaming,” you mumbled voice hoarse and thick. “Wanted to hear you say that… for a long time.”

His head dropped to rest lightly against your hand.

“You’re not dreaming,” he murmured. “And I’m not wasting another second.”

You drifted in and out of sleep.

Every time, he was there—reading case files, sipping bad coffee, holding your hand.

Once, you woke to find him brushing your hair back, lips pressed to your temple.

You didn’t talk much.

You didn’t need to.

His presence spoke louder than words.

You were alive. He was still here.

And when the time came for you to be discharged, Hotch was the one who wheeled you out of the hospital.

The team cheered, but his hand never left your shoulder.

Protective. Steady. Yours.

Later, when the BAU plane touched back down and he helped you into his SUV and began driving you to his place instead of your apartment, you didn’t ask why.

You already knew.

He wouldn’t let you out of his sight again.

Not after almost losing you.

Not now that he’d found the courage to hold on.

[luna-rainbow]

I wasn’t going to watch the Thunderbolts but I had a chance to get out of the house and took it.

It was good, as long as you’re not going in with the expectation that Bucky would be of any importance in the story. This is very much Yelena’s story, and to a smaller extent, Bob/Sentry’s. Bucky’s most kickass scenes were already in the trailers. It was fun seeing him play Congressman, if only because Sebastian played the “I’m dying inside while playing nice for the press” expression with perfection. I need to see the script again but it was implied that Bucky was quite a pull for voters so…that’s interesting. Him turning up the charm to try and get Val’s secretary on his side was a very nice detail, because I can see Bucky knowing he’s got the ability to do it but dying inside when he has to. It felt like they were going somewhere with Bucky’s involvement in the story but once he joined forces with the rest of the guys (which was like…end of Act One), he very much felt like a glorified cameo. And it would be nice if we could get one movie without Bucky’s prosthesis being removed for shock value 🙄

One tiny detail that made me smile was that Walker was a dick to Bob early on and in the final scene, he was the only one that got pinned by a knife while everyone else just got tied down. I liked how consistent Walker is with his previous appearance, the same blustering confidence, although just a little bit quicker to accept he’s wrong. Still very much white jock energy though.

The movie was a fine portrayal of mental health, personified mainly by Bob and his alter ego. This made the third act a bit heavy handed with the metaphors coming in thick, the “your greatest enemy is yourself”, and “it’s okay to not be okay”, and “you don’t have to get through a mental health crisis on your own”. And maybe also a side of “depression will make you feel deeply alone but people who care about you will be hurt if you hurt yourself” and “hurt people hurt people”. This also meant the action was far more interesting (and very well choreographed) in the first act compared to the latter half of the movie where a lot of it was wired superhero flying. The team dynamic was very enjoyable despite their frequent squabbling and I think we can thank the ensemble of excellent actors for making this group of highly flawed people likeable and funny.

It was a shame that the movie never delved deeper into any of the other characters outside of Yelena — whether that’s Walker grappling with his colossal failure (and I mean this seriously, I think Walker’s flaws were amplified by his fear of failing and not being the perfect high achiever he’s been all his life); how Alexei deals with his complex role for Yelena and Nat that’s both (deadbeat) father and abuser/child trafficker; whatever struggles Ava had to face trying to overcome her physical limitations and being forced to work for SHIELD; and Bucky…

I mean, Bucky’s whole history with trauma, abuse, loss of agency and guilt falls right in with this story but he doesn’t even get a flashback.

At least he got the line “(unlike me) you can choose who you work for” and that’s more acknowledgement than the entire 6 episodes of TFATWS, so that says something.

It’s nice seeing mental health so front and centre in the MCU but the story left a lot of the side characters under-utilised and the resolution is just a little too magical. But still one of the better post Endgame outings.

[coca-cola-brainstorm]

Stronger in the dark

pt1 ———Out on Bruce———

He approached your cell deliberately, his piercing gaze locked onto yours for what felt like an eternity. The silence grew thick and uncomfortable; you could almost hear your heartbeat echoing in the small space. Feeling increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny, you instinctively waved your hand in front of his face to break the spell. The motion seemed to jolt him back to reality, as he blinked rapidly, momentarily perplexed.

Just then, Officer Gordon entered the scene, his demeanor calm but authoritative. He swung open the door to your cell, the creaking metal adding to the dramatic atmosphere. With an efficient motion, he removed your handcuffs, the clanking sound echoing through the stark concrete walls. Without uttering a single word, he gestured for you to step forward.

You moved towards his desk, the gravity of the situation settling in—but Bruce Wayne did not remain behind. He trailed closely behind you, his shadow looming as you walked into the unknown, the weight of his presence lingering in the air. It was a strange intersection of your world and his, and you couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far more complex.

“So, where’s Greg?” you asked, glancing around the dimly lit room, searching for any sign of your dad. Gordon’s expression shifted from concern to confusion as he looked at you and then at Bruce, who stood awkwardly by the door. The silence that followed felt heavy, and your heart raced with uncertainty. “I thought you said my dad was picking me up,” you repeated, your voice a mix of anxiety and frustration.

Gordon sighed, his gaze shifting to the floor before meeting your eyes again. “That’s why Bruce is here,” he said slowly, clearly choosing his words with care. “The blood test came back, and… he’s your father.”

The revelation hit you like a wave, crashing over your thoughts and leaving you reeling. You stared at Bruce, the man you barely knew but who suddenly represented so much more than just a stranger. Questions filled your mind, swirling and clashing—who was he? Why had you never met him before? The air felt thick with unsaid emotions, and you could sense the weight of the truth hanging in the room, waiting for you to process it.

You laughed, initially believing it was just a joke, but when you turned to Gordon and Bruce, their expressions revealed the truth; they weren’t laughing. A cold wave of realization washed over you as you recognized their seriousness. The evidence was undeniable—documents spread out on the table confirmed everything you feared. You swallowed hard, your heart racing, and you cautiously asked to see the proof. As they handed over the papers, a chill ran down your spine; there it was, a match for this stranger.

At that moment, you knew you had to think fast. Bruce’s gaze was fixed on you, filled with an intense scrutiny that made your pulse quicken. With a sudden rush of urgency, you dashed towards him, calling out, “Dad!” before enveloping him in a tight embrace. The embrace felt desperate, a mix of relief and confusion swirling in your chest. You often acted on impulse, and it struck you in that moment just how much was at stake.

As you hugged him, you felt the warmth of his body, but there was something else—a plan forming beneath the surface of your thoughts. With deft hands, you subtly reached into his pocket and snatched his wallet, your heart pounding as you let go and stepped back. The exhilaration of your reckless choice mingled with a creeping sense of guilt. In an instant, the stakes had been raised, and the gravity of what you had done pressed down on you harder than ever.

Bruce and Gordon exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern as they sized you up. You turned to Bruce, hesitating for a moment before asking if he could assist you with the tangled mess of paperwork that loomed over you like a dark cloud. Gordon, ever enthusiastic, seized the opportunity to chat your ear off about the possibilities that lay before you—a real dad, a stable home, a family to call your own. You listened, nodding along, but inside, you felt a familiar tightness in your chest. You crafted half-hearted plans in your mind, knowing deep down that they were just smoke and mirrors; none of them ever seemed likely to materialize. For now, all you could do was stall for time while the gears of a more concrete strategy began to turn in your head.

As Bruce concluded whatever bureaucratic tasks Gordon had piled on him, he turned to you with a serious tone, declaring, "You're coming home with me."

You responded with a simple, "Okay," carefully avoiding any argument that might spark further scrutiny. Bruce narrowed his eyes, a hint of suspicion flickering there as if he were trying to decode the tangled mess of thoughts swirling in your mind. Without another word, you both walked out of the station, the bustling sounds of the city fading behind you.

Outside, the sight that greeted you was unexpected—a sleek black limousine, its glossy surface gleaming under the sun, accompanied by a sharply dressed man standing by the door. Bruce began a conversation with him, his tone brisk yet confident. As he caught your eye for a brief moment, he gestured for you to get into the car. You felt a jolt of uncertainty. The plan you had been forming needed an immediate adjustment, but you understood the importance of going with the flow to keep any suspicions at bay. With a deep breath, you steeled yourself and climbed into the vehicle, ready to navigate whatever this new chapter might bring.

Once inside the most luxurious car you had ever sat in, which had snacks, drinks, and even champagne, Gordon returned your backpack when you were in the station so you had It now You began to fill it with all the options, then looked out the window to see Bruce and the man still talking. They both got into the car, and another man took the driver’s seat and turned to you. "Hi, I'm Alfred," he said. You enthusiastically replied that it was nice to meet him, and soon you were off driving through Gotham.

As you drove past the familiar buildings lining the streets of Gotham, a plan began to take shape in your mind. The weight of your decision settled around you; thoughts of staying with Bruce Wayne felt suffocating. You cherished your solitude, a precious state that had become harder to maintain, and you didn't want his presence to disrupt that hard-won independence. Bruce was a stranger to you, a looming figure from a world you had no interest in entering.

"Can I use the bathroom?" you asked, breaking the silence that hung in the car. Alfred, Bruce’s loyal butler, pulled over to the curb with practiced ease. The bright neon sign of a fast-food restaurant flickered to life in the twilight, and you recognized it instantly. It was one of those places you had frequented in quieter, simpler days, long before life twisted into its current shape.

Climbing out of the car, you felt the cool evening air on your skin as you stepped into the restaurant. Bruce followed closely behind; his presence—though imposing—was also a reminder of your plan in motion. He asked if you were hungry, but you quickly nodded, feigning a casualness you didn’t feel. “I can eat,” you said, and with that, he made his way to the counter to place an order. “I’ll grab your food while you use the bathroom,” he instructed, and you allowed yourself a small smirk as you headed in the opposite direction.

You moved quickly, almost instinctively, as you navigated the cramped restroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and you washed your hands, taking a moment to steady your breath. This was it; your moment to break free. With a small sigh of determination, you exited the bathroom.

Peering through the door’s glass, you spotted Bruce still waiting at the counter, engrossed in conversation with the cashier. Seizing the opportunity, you pushed through the other exit, stepping out into the familiar alley that ran behind the restaurant. This was your chance—a calculated move in your carefully crafted plan.

You strode through the alley, each step echoing your resolve to create distance between yourself and Bruce. Grab a few belongings, slip away unnoticed, and vanish back into the anonymity of Gotham. You yearned for the freedom of your separate life, perhaps even to erase the memory of this fleeting encounter, though deep down, you knew that wouldn’t be possible.

As you continued through the dimly lit streets of Gotham, the weight of recent revelations hung over you: the truth about your father. But the reality was both stark and liberating—you didn’t care to delve into that connection any further. The city felt alive around you, a backdrop to the complex tapestry of your life, and you intended to keep weaving it on your terms.

[hearts-hunger]

oh my god what the FUCK was that

okay, the two things i liked first. pros:

surprisingly, being a game truther, i liked the changes made to the tv station. having the soldiers strung up in the dark with the floodlights and thunderstorm gave that scene a brutality and scariness it doesn't have in the game, and dina and ellie having to sneak out like they did was very high-stakes and suspenseful.

ellie's "i would die for you. i would. but that is not what just happened" whole bit was so good i went back and rewatched it. her admission about her immunity and the dialogue in that moment felt true to ellie's character. isabella and bella did a great job with that scene. of course it makes no sense that ellie is surprised that dina is pointing a gun at her, but whatever. for the most part, that scene was done really well.

okay, now for the cons. buckle up, because there's a lot of them.

why the fuck are the making dina and ellie a happy little couple? "i'm gonna be a dad" give me a fucking BREAK??? i can't even express how antithetical to the story of the game this is. because ellie is not happy about this baby, she's horrible to dina, she's so wrapped up in revenge that she can't think about anything else. making them like...... dream up a baby registry is SUCH a mistake. and having dina go with ellie? this is supposed to be the part where ellie goes truly unhinged. she loses every shred of morality. not even dina and her baby can bring her back from the precipice, even all the way to the bitter end when she's built a life with them. she goes alone, to plow through all of seattle, to become a cold-blooded killer, to kill abby at any cost. but nope! now here comes mommy and daddy on a fun little killing spree while they think up colors for the nursery. what the fuck, genuinely.

like, not to be dramatic, but it's...... completely shredding the most intense and important character development in the story. tonally the game makes a very clear divide between jackson and seattle, and the show is forcing warm, intimate, loving moments into what is supposed to be a cold, gloomy, numb-feeling section of the story. ellie doesn't respond well to dina being pregnant. this is the moment where she really shows a side of herself that is so steeped in anger and fear and grief that she almost never gets over it. whether she will ever get over it is, like, a major question the game leaves us with. why are they screwing with that? why are they making ellie more palatable? let her be fucked up!!!

as for dina, what in the chappel roan comphet coming out trauma is going on with her. i actually hate how they've turned the confident bisexual woman from the game into...... whatever this dina is. i'm just personally not that interested in "my parents didn't approve, i was confused, i'm not brave, i tried to force it with a guy" whatever kind of bisexual storyline this is. maybe some people are. but i liked dina how she was in the game: simply, unapologetically, confidently bisexual. we don't have to have trauma in our coming-out stories. we can just be bisexual.

also, it's weird that they made dina and ellie's first sexual intimacy be some weird trauma-bond, heat of passion, right after a near-death-experience kind of thing. dina and ellie sleeping together in the game felt sweet, tender, flirty, warm, safe. this felt rushed and strange and insincere. it felt cheap, maybe. i can't really describe it. it was like it was written for straight men. like, graphic, rain-soaked, sloppy, hair down and makeup smudged. maybe i'm in the minority on this but it didn't feel good to me. i'm interested to know what people thought about it.

i think we're spending way too much time on isaac. perhaps if we hadn't wasted so much time in jackson in therapy we'd have time for development on isaac, but we don't really have time now.

anyone holding onto the "here's how tommy can still kill all of seattle" dream can put the tin hats away. it's not happening. and it sucks and it's a waste. but it's clearly not happening.

also, these are maybe nitpicky and not really story related, but:

didn't love the graphic content this episode. maybe that's a me thing. but the stupid josh peck gratuitous vulgarity, the full nudity in the torture scene, the straight up sex with dina end ellie - i know that's hbo's style, but i think we've maybe lost the art of subtlety.

everybody's said this but their clothes look brand new even after they've been crawling through mud and rain and whatever. it looks fake and weird.

in that same vein, ellie's bite marks have all looked super clean and not gnarly as if she's almost gotten her arm gnawed off. also she gets bit every other tuesday so it's lost its wow factor.

okay, i know i said a lot but that episode truly was a lot. come talk to me here or on my tlou blog @ellies-miller about your thoughts on this episode! i want to know what everyone thought and discuss it!

[yena-enha]

𝐃𝐢𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 - 𝐘𝐉𝐖

Warning - Terminal illness, character death, intense grief, emotional trauma, hospital scenes, mild medical descriptions, mourning, crying, coping with loss.

Note - SFW CONTENT

Genre - Angst, Drama, Slice of Life

Pairing - Jungwon x FemReader (Best Friends to Soulmates)

Song Inspiration- Die With A Smile BY BRUNO MARS & LADY GAGA

Word Count - 2.8k words

The air in our little apartment always felt different when Jungwon was playing the piano. It was as if the world around us disappeared, and it was just the two of us, lost in the music, creating melodies that no one else would ever understand the way we did.

We were inseparable since birth. We had always been like this—him at the piano, me singing. Together, we made magic.

I had always known about Jungwon’s sickness. He had been fragile from the start, prone to illnesses that no one could explain. But that had never mattered to me.

I took care of him when he was sick, and he was there for me, always. We had always been there for each other, always. And we thought that was enough.

That evening started just like any other. I was sitting beside him, my voice joining his music as it always did. His fingers moved across the piano keys, creating the melody we were both so proud of. It was a song we were going to perform together one day, when the world would hear it, when we would finally be able to share the music we had created.

The future was ours—our future on stage, creating music, making our dreams come true.

But then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

I didn’t hear it at first. The soft thud, the sound of his body collapsing onto the keys. At first, it felt like the music had just hit a wrong note, a mistake we could fix.

But when I turned and saw him slumped forward, his head resting against the cold surface of the piano, my heart stopped.

“Jungwon!” I shouted, rushing to his side. My hands trembled as I shook him, hoping for any sign that he was okay. That this was just some accident.

But his body was limp, unresponsive. Panic clawed at my chest as I screamed his name again, my voice cracking with terror. My hands flew to his chest, his skin cold, and I could feel my own pulse pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else.

I barely remember how we got to the hospital. I was too focused on Jungwon, on his still body in my arms, on the way his breath came in shallow gasps. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I just needed him to be okay.

When they told me the truth, I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t believe it. Lung cancer. Three months. That’s what they said. Three months. His body, so fragile, had finally given in, and all we had left was time. Three months.

“Jungwon has lung cancer,” the doctor said, his voice calm, almost distant. “It’s advanced. There’s nothing we can do. We can try to make him comfortable, but…” The words blurred after that.

My heart felt as though it was breaking in a thousand pieces, and I couldn’t find a way to put it all back together.

I couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not like this. Not after everything we’d been through.

I didn’t know how I made it through those days. I didn’t know how I functioned. But somehow, I did. I stayed by his side. I was with him, every second of every day.

I cared for him. I held him when he cried, when the pain was too much, when the fear of what was coming next consumed him.

I fed him, gave him his medicine, slept beside him, and sang lullabies to him as if somehow, that would make it all go away. But it didn’t.

He looked at me one night, his face pale from the sickness, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m not going to be around much longer… I’ve always wanted to be there for you, to make you proud, but now… I can’t.”

I kissed his forehead, brushing the hair from his face. “You’ve already made me proud, Jungwon. You’ve always made me proud. You don’t have to do anything else. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here.”

He smiled, but it was so fragile, so bittersweet. “Promise me that you’ll keep making music. Promise me that you won’t give up on us.”

“I promise,” I whispered, my voice breaking, but I held it together. I had to. For him.

We made a promise together. We would create a song, one that would be ours. Something that would live on, something that would remain even after he was gone. We called it Die With a Smile.

Every day, we worked on it. Jungwon would play the piano, and I would sing. We poured every ounce of emotion into that song, our hopes, our fears, everything we couldn’t say aloud.

It was a song that spoke of love, of loss, of the things we couldn’t control. The melody was soft but haunting, and the lyrics? They were everything I wanted to say to him before he left. The song we would never get to perform together.

As the days slipped by, and the months turned into weeks, I watched him fade. His strength waned, his smile grew more and more distant. But he never stopped playing. Even when he was too weak to hold his head up, he played. And I sang. We finished the song together.

On the last day, I was beside him, holding his hand as he sat at the piano, his fingers trembling as they touched the keys. We both knew it was time. It had been three months—three precious months that I would never get back. And as we played Die With a Smile for the last time, I could feel his body growing colder, his strength fading.

I finished the last verse, my voice cracking with emotion. Jungwon, his eyes glazed with pain, whispered, “I love you… more than a best friend, more than anything.”

And as the final note rang out, I saw him slump forward, his head falling onto the piano with a soft thud. My heart stopped, and I screamed. I screamed his name, but it was too late.

“Jungwon!” I cried, my voice breaking as I cradled his head in my lap. His body was cold, lifeless, and I knew it was over.

He was gone.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel anything but the emptiness that had taken his place. His parents arrived, and I barely recognized their voices. I don’t even remember the funeral.

I sat there, numb, my eyes blank as I stared at the coffin that held everything I had lost. Everything I would never get back.

In the days that followed, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the apartment. I couldn’t bear to leave the piano, the one place that still held his presence.

I learned to play the piano, the way he had taught me. I sang Die With a Smile over and over again, each note filled with more pain than the last. It was the only way I could hold on to him, the only way I could keep him close.

But time moved on. The world didn’t stop for my grief. I released my music, the songs we had written together, the songs he had dreamed of hearing people sing.

Slowly, I built a fan base, people who loved my music as much as I loved Jungwon’s. They didn’t know the story behind the songs, but they felt the emotion in every note.

I stood there, backstage, my heart racing in my chest. The stage lights were bright, and the buzz of the crowd outside, eager for the concert to begin, was deafening.

I wasn’t ready, but when was I ever going to be? It had taken me so long to get to this point, to stand in front of people and share the music we had created, the music Jungwon and I had poured our hearts into.

But as I stood there, just moments before stepping into the spotlight, everything felt too overwhelming. The weight of it all pressed down on me—the memories of him, his laugh, his voice, his piano playing, all of it wrapped up in this one moment.

I closed my eyes, feeling the rush of emotions threaten to tear me apart. His absence was a hole in my chest that I couldn’t fill.

I wasn’t sure how I was still standing, how I was still moving, how I was going to make it through this. But I had promised him.

I had promised that I would keep going, that I would make music for the both of us, even if he wasn’t here to see it.

So, I stepped forward, the weight of my emotions pulling at my every step, until I found myself on stage, the bright lights blinding me for a moment.

The crowd cheered, but it felt distant, like I was living in a dream, not quite real. I stood there, the microphone in my hand, my heart beating so loud I could hardly hear the voices of the people.

They wanted to hear me. They wanted to see me, but all I could see was him. All I could feel was the absence of the one person who had always been there.

I took a shaky breath, gripping the mic tighter, trying to steady my hands. The weight of the moment hit me like a wave, and before I could stop it, the words spilled out of my mouth.

“I… I owe everything to someone who isn’t here tonight,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion. The words felt like a physical ache, each one heavier than the last.

“Someone who changed my life, who made me who I am. Someone who… who I will never forget.”

The crowd fell silent, sensing the shift in the air, the heaviness in my voice. I couldn’t stop myself. My vision blurred with tears I had been holding back for so long, and as I spoke, it felt as if my heart was breaking all over again, all for the same person.

The person who had left too soon. The person who I had promised to never forget, even when it felt like everything else was slipping away.

I could almost hear him in my mind, his laugh, his teasing voice, the way he’d always comforted me when I was scared.

He was everywhere, even though he was gone. And that ache, the way his absence clawed at me, made it hard to breathe.

I forced the words out, even as they shook with my pain.

“His name was Jungwon. And… and he was my best friend. He was the one who believed in me, who made me believe in myself. And together… together, we wrote this song. A song about love, about loss, about… saying goodbye with a smile.”

The tears began to fall, hot and fast. I couldn’t stop them. They blurred my vision, making everything feel unreal, but I knew I couldn’t back down now.

He would’ve wanted me to keep going. He would’ve wanted me to sing, to share the music, to make people feel the way we had always wanted them to feel.

I wiped my face quickly, trying to gather myself, but the pain never stopped.

Not even now. I looked out at the crowd, and for a moment, I felt as if I was standing alone in the world, carrying the weight of all the things I had never been able to say to him, all the things I had never told him.

The music started, and I felt the piano keys echoing in my chest, a familiar, haunting sound that brought me back to the days we spent together, making this song.

I took a deep breath, and as I started singing, it was as if he was with me again, sitting beside me at the piano, playing his part. The pain was still there, but so was the love.

The love that had never gone away. The love that still burned bright.

I sang with everything I had, pouring every bit of grief, love, and sorrow into every note, every word.

As the song built up, I couldn’t help but remember how he had smiled at me the last time we played it together.

How, despite everything, he had never stopped loving me, never stopped holding onto me.

“I wanna hold you, just for a while and die with a smile. If the world was ending, I wanna be next to you.”

And as I sang those words, my heart broke again, this time in front of all of them. But it felt right. It felt like he was still here, just beyond my reach, always with me. And that was the only thing that mattered.

For the first time since his death, I smiled. Because I knew Jungwon would always be with me. Always.

«Masterlist || Introduction»

Taglist» @strxwbloody

[itoshiierae]

RIP CURRENT 🌊༄.°

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: lifeguard AU!barou shoei x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 notes: sooo… my debut nsfw one-shot on this blog is lifeguard!barou 🥵🫦 don’t even ask me how this idea came to life — i saw the vision in my head and sprinted straight to google docs like my life depended on it. this man lives in my brain rent-free and now he’s dragging me into the ocean with him too. (no lifeguard on duty for your feelings. good luck <33)

ᡣ𐭩 cw: mdni 🔞, nsfw, emotional intensity, beach setting, slow-burn, enemies to lovers, near-death/drowning scene, light fear/panic, angst → comfort, possessive behavior, slight manhandling, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, praise kink, soft dominance, rough sex, “you’re mine” energy, post-rescue intimacy, messy emotions

The sun was brutal. The kind of brutal that clung to everything — skin, clothes & most of all, your patience. It was so unbearably hot that quitting almost felt like self-care.

You hated working double shifts at the beach club. Hated the endless shrieks of drunk tourists, the sour reek of salt-crusted beer, the weight of heavy trays slipping in sweaty palms. But most of all, more than sand grinding in your shoes, more than stupid influencers live-streaming in the sun — you hated him.

Barou Shoei.

The so-called King of the Beach.

The way that you spotted him almost immediately — because how could you not when he was built like a damn statue. Black hair pulled into a messy bun, red lifeguard shorts slung low on his hips as he stood shirtless near the surf, arms crossed, sunglasses low on his nose — scowling at the horizon like he owned the ocean. You hated how his presence seemed to suck the oxygen out of the beach.

──★

For the past thirty minutes, you’d been running on fumes — dodging drunk tourists, juggling drink orders, and trying not to scream every time someone called you ‘sweetheart.’ Your patience was hanging by a thread. Your uniform clung to your skin, your shoulders ached, and the tray on your arm felt like dead weight.

You barely had time to breathe, let alone think. So when you jerked your tray higher onto your shoulder and turned on your heel — you didn’t expect to crash straight into someone.

A hand caught your waist — fast, steady. Unshakable.

And of course, there he was — Barou Shoei, in all his shirtless, overconfident glory. The self-proclaimed king of the beach and unfortunately, the last person you wanted to see.

“You should watch where you’re going, waitress,” he rumbled, voice low and annoyingly amused.

“I should throw this tray at your face,” you said sweetly.

He smirked — sharp, slow, and devastating.

“You couldn’t reach.”

You hated how your face burned under his gaze. Hated how he tapped the edge of the tray with his knuckle — like as if he owned you.

“You’re slippin’,” he said, nodding toward the drinks.

“I’m fine,” you snapped.

“You sure?” he teased, voice low.

“You’re an asshole,” you muttered, turning on your heel.

His laugh came after you — slow, smug, and way too pleased with himself like he hadn’t just caught you off-guard and hadn’t just touched your waist. Almost as if he already knew that he was going to be living rent-free in your head for the rest of the shift.

“Love you too, waitress.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around, you didn’t need to.

His stare followed you like a tide — low, slow, and full of things he hadn’t said yet. It prickled down your spine, and stayed there long after his voice faded.

You hadn’t even planned to get in the water. Not until some drunken asshole tripped you, soaking you in sticky cocktails and cheap liquor.

Furious, humiliated, dripping in sticky cocktails with shattered pride. You didn’t think. Didn’t look back. Didn’t care that the entire bar had gone dead silent — eyes on you, laughter choking in their throats. You grabbed the tray nearby with shaking hands and launched it at him — metal slicing through the air, the drinks still clattering as they flew.

You missed, of course.

Of course you did. And then you walked. No — stomped straight past the gawking tourists, past the servers frozen in place, and went straight into the ocean like it could swallow your embarrassment whole.

The water met your calves, then your thighs, but you didn’t stop until you were chest-deep — salt stinging your skin, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the noise behind you. You let yourself enjoy it — just for a second. The salt, the stillness, the rush. But then something shifted beneath you. The current wrapped around your legs like it had been waiting. And you didn’t see it coming until it was already too late.

The rip current caught your legs — sudden, sharp, unforgiving. It yanked you off balance before you could even scream, the ocean wrapping around your body like it was meant to keep you.

Panic burst in your chest — fast and brutal — your breath hitching as the water dragged you deeper. You kicked. Gasped. Fought with everything you had. But the waves didn’t care. They just kept pulling, each second felt longer than the last — your muscles burning, lungs tightening, the surface blurring into sky as salt stung your eyes and panic turning into genuine fear.

Just when you thought you couldn’t fight anymore, there he was, cutting through the waves like he’d been looking for you the whole time. The way he slammed into the water like a freight train. You barely registered the shout of your name before his arm locked around your waist — steady, overwhelming — as he carried you straight out of the water.

When you finally broke the surface, you were gasping — crying — clinging to every ounce of breath like it might slip through your fingers. You stared at him — furious, breathless, and shaking with everything you didn’t have words for. It’s true that you hated him, but he did save your life. And before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around him — clinging like you’d never let go, like he was the only solid thing in a world that had just tried to swallow you whole.

"You fuckin' idiot," he muttered into your hair. "You stupid, stubborn, reckless little—”

He bit the words down — just hugging you tighter.

“You should hate me,” you rasped.

Barou let out a broken laugh.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Should. Don’t.”

“Can’t”.

And you saw it — all of it. Not the king of the beach. Not the arrogant, untouchable, insufferable man who smirked like the sun answered to him. Just Barou Shoei wrecked over you like as if saving you had unraveled something inside him he didn’t know how to put back together. Like he didn’t care who saw — as long as you did.

You tipped your chin up — eyes wide, lips parted, a silent plea written all over your face.

And Barou snapped.

He kissed you.

Hard.

Desperate.

Like he needed to stake a claim before the moment disappeared.

There was no hesitation, no gentleness — just raw panic in the shape of his mouth on yours. His hands found your waist, grounding you like he couldn’t bear another second of distance. He kissed you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. You still tasted like ocean and near-death & the version of you he thought he might’ve lost. You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in the soaked fabric of his wet shirt — clutching him, anchoring yourself.

And when your lips moved with his, something cracked wide open in his chest. He groaned — low, guttural — and dragged you closer, deepening the kiss like he couldn’t get enough, like there were a thousand things he didn’t know how to say, so he said all of it this way instead.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed gently against yours — damp hair clinging to his skin, chest still heaving like he hadn’t fully caught his breath.

And the kind of silence that said everything.

His voice was low — barely more than a breath, but it landed like a punch straight to the center of you.

“You’re mine.”

Not a question.

Not a threat.

More like a vow — raw and unshakable, like it had always lived in his chest, waiting to be spoken out loud. You blinked hard, lips trembling with a smile — small, shaky, stunned but certain.

“Yours.”

The word left your mouth like it had been there all along. Always had been — even when you didn’t want it to be. Without a doubt, you knew that you were meant to be his.

Barou didn’t give you time to think, didn’t give you time to second-guess the heat still buzzing between your lips. One moment you were kissing him — breathless, clinging — the next, your feet weren’t touching the ground.

His hands were under your thighs, arms locked tight around you like you weighed nothing. His mouth ghosted over your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder — but he didn’t stop moving. He was all motion and muscle and single-minded urgency, storming across the sand with you in his arms like you were something precious he refused to lose again.

He kicked open the cabana door — hard enough to rattle the frame — and carried you straight inside like he owned the place. Then, somehow, he managed to lower you onto the bed with a kind of gentleness that didn’t match the fire still burning in his eyes.

“You got any idea,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked, crawling over you like a storm ready to break.

“How many fuckin’ times I almost grabbed you?”

You whimpered — fingers digging into his shoulders — as his mouth found the curve of your throat.

He kissed you there, open-mouthed and hungry, tongue dragging along your skin like he was tasting months of frustration.

“You — in those little skirts,” he growled, breath hot against your collarbone, “actin’ like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.”

His hands slid beneath your clothes — rough palms against soft skin — tugging, pulling each piece of your clothing down your body, like it offended him just for being in the way.

“Not anymore,” he growled.

And then he kissed you again — hard, filthy, teeth grazing your bottom lip as if he wanted to taste your gasp. He didn’t kiss like someone who wanted permission, he kissed like someone who’d already decided you belonged to him.

He took his time, dragging his mouth down your chest, your stomach, pausing only to mutter curses under his breath — about how soft you were, how sweet you sounded, how fucking perfect you felt under him.

He lined himself up, his tip nudging against your entrance, teasing, dragging — and you were already shaking, already breathless, your hips lifting for more without even meaning to.

“Beg,” he muttered, voice wrecked, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you’re mine.”

“You know I am,” you gasped. “Barou—please.”

That was all it took.

He pushed in slowly — inch by inch — deep and overwhelming, stretching you open until you were breathless. He didn’t rush, he wanted you to feel all of it — every second, every fuckin’ inch of him inside you. And when he bottomed out, your mouth dropped open on a silent cry.

He groaned low in his throat, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel… perfect.”

He set a rhythm — slow, deep, punishing. The kind of rhythm that made your toes curl, your fingers claw at his back, your legs tighten around his waist like he was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.

“You’re mine,” he growled again, thrusts sharper now, more desperate.

“You hear me? Mine.”

You nodded through the haze, gasping his name between every roll of his hips. And when you clenched around him, barely able to speak, he buried his face in your neck and whispered—

“Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

And, you did.

Over and over — like a prayer, a plea, a promise.

And when you came, it hit you like a wave — ripping through your spine, your stomach, your chest — and you swore he kissed you like he felt it too.

He chased his release right after, driving into you with a broken sound, like he hadn’t meant for it to be this intense, this messy, this real.

──★

You didn’t drown in the ocean.

You drowned in him — in his hands, his voice, his body, his need.

And you never wanted to be saved again.

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[chaoticsolsworld]

Hii I saw you were requesting fics for Danny Ramirez and omg can you pls write smth following the last scene im brave new world where Joaquin is in the hospital with Sam and then reader just barges in (as their gf I hope you do fem reader if not gender neutral is okay to!) all worried for him and how she takes care of Joaquin post surgery? TYY 🫶🫶🫶

“You’re still my Wings”| Joaquin Torres x Reader

Author’s Note: Just a soft post-Brave New World hurt/comfort moment with our favorite winged boy. Includes hospital scenes, injury recovery, and lots of care from fem!reader. CW for surgery aftermath, emotional distress, and medical setting—but mostly fluff, healing, and love. Hope you enjoy, and reblogs are always appreciated!

The chaos was over….but your world hadn’t settled.

The sharp white light of the hospital corridor made everything feel surreal as you sprinted past orderlies and nurses, heart pounding like a drum. The battle, the explosion, the broadcasted footage of Sam and Red Hulk’s rampage, it was all still playing in your mind. The reports said he’d been injured….That Joaquin had been hurt bad. But no one had said how bad. No one had told you anything that mattered.

Until now.

You turned a corner and spotted the room number.

A nurse tried to stop you. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there yet—”

You didn’t even slow down. “Try me.”

The door hissed open, and there he was.

Joaquin lay on the hospital bed, bandages wrapping his abdomen and shoulder, his skin pale and marked with bruises, IV lines feeding into his arm. His wings, His suit…what was left of them were folded and damaged on a table near the wall. Sam sat nearby, elbows on his knees, like he was carrying the weight of the world. Again.

You felt your chest tighten.

“Joaquin,” you gasped.

He turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curled weakly into a smile. “Hey, amor…”

You were at his side in an instant, falling into the chair beside him, hands searching, checking. Fingers brushed over his cheek, his arm, his chest—avoiding the gauze but needing to feel him, to make sure he was real.

“What did they do to you?” you whispered. “Why didn’t anyone call me sooner? You—God, Joaquin, you look like—like they pulled you out of hell.”

“I think they did,” he joked, voice rough. “Twice.”

You laughed, but it broke halfway out of your throat. Your vision blurred with tears as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his temple.

“I thought I lost you,” you said quietly.

He turned his head just enough to brush his nose against yours. “Nah. You don’t get rid of me that easy.”

Sam stood, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s stable now. Needs rest. And someone to stop him from flying outta here tomorrow.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, barely glancing at him. “I’ve got this.”

Sam gave a small nod. “Alright. He’s in good hands.” He clapped Joaquin’s leg gently and walked out.

As the door closed, you finally let yourself feel it—the ache, the fear, the sheer rage of almost losing him. Joaquin watched you with soft, tired eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You want to yell at me. Say I was reckless.”

“You were,” you snapped, wiping your cheeks. “But I’ll save the yelling until you’re not high on pain meds.”

He gave a low chuckle, which turned into a wince. “Deal.”

You got to work right away. You adjusted his blanket because the nurse had left it bunched up near his hips and helped him sip some water. You ran your fingers through his sweat-damp curls to calm him. You asked if he was cold. You threatened to unplug the monitors if they beeped one more time.

And when he got quiet, you sat back down and just… held his hand.

“I saw the wreckage,” you said softly, watching your thumb rub slow circles on his skin. “I saw what it did to your wings.”

He turned his head, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Yeah. They’re kinda totaled.”

You hesitated. “Does it… hurt?”

He nodded slowly. “Everywhere.”

You leaned over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re still my wings. Metal or not. I don’t care if you never fly again.”

“I will,” he said, and you could tell he believed it, even if he was afraid. “But I’m not rushing back in. Not without you in my corner.”

You smiled, and finally, finally, it reached your eyes. “I’m always in your corner. Just don’t make me wait in another ER like this again.”

He squeezed your hand, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re the only reason I fought to stay awake.”

You rested your head gently against his shoulder, letting the quiet settle between you. His heart monitor beeped steadily, and you matched your breathing to it. One breath at a time. One heartbeat at a time. He was here. He was alive.

And he was yours.

You didn’t leave that night. Not even when the nurses gently suggested visiting hours were over. Not when Joaquin finally drifted off to sleep, hand still curled loosely in yours.

The next morning, you were still there, hair messy, hoodie borrowed from his go-bag, eyes heavy but alert.

He blinked awake groggily, disoriented until his gaze landed on you.

“You stayed.”

“Of course I did.”

Joaquin winced as he tried to shift up in bed, groaning. You were by his side in a flash, pressing the call button and gently adjusting his pillows.

“Hey, hey, easy,” you murmured. “You had surgery. You’re not going anywhere unless it’s in a wheelchair and I’m the one pushing it.”

He smirked despite himself. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

(Two Days Later – At Your Home)

He hated needing help. Joaquin Torres was used to flying, soaring above the chaos, always in control. But now, everything ached. His body felt like it had been stitched together with gravel and bad luck.

You were the only one he let see him like this.

You’d set up his apartment like a recovery ward. Extra pillows. Soft blankets. Pain meds on a timer. You even downloaded a Spanish audiobook because he said English ones made him feel like he was being lectured by Sam.

“Alright,” you said one morning, carefully crouching beside the couch where he was propped up. “I need to change the bandages.”

He groaned. “You sure a nurse shouldn’t be doing that?”

“You want a stranger touching you while you’re shirtless and half-asleep?”

“…Good point.”

He winced as you peeled back the gauze. You worked slowly, careful not to tug, your fingers gentle. The wound on his shoulder was still angry red, the stitches tight and healing.

You met his eyes. “You okay?”

He nodded, biting back a hiss. “Hurts less than yesterday. You’re getting good at this.”

“I YouTubed a few videos.”

He blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

You shrugged. “Had to learn fast. They don’t exactly cover ‘how to care for your Falcon superhero boyfriend’ in school.”

He laughed, a real one this time and you smiled, pressing fresh bandages into place, smoothing the tape down with practiced fingers. When you were done, you leaned in and kissed the top of his shoulder.

“There,” you whispered. “All patched up.”

“You always make me feel human,” he said quietly. “Even when I feel broken.”

You sat beside him, pulling the blanket over his legs. “You’re not broken, Joaquin. You’re healing. And I’m here for every second of it. The pain, the mood swings, the ugly scars, you’re not facing it alone.”

He turned his head toward you, his dark eyes soft. “I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted. “Of what comes next. Of not flying again. Of not being… enough.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said, threading your fingers through his. “You just have to be mine.”

He squeezed your hand. “Always.”

And for the first time since the battlefield, since the blood and chaos and fire, Joaquin allowed himself to rest. Not just sleep but rest. Because you were there. Because home wasn’t just a place anymore.

It was you…

[sweetcakeroll]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ take me to paris

rafe cameron x reader x barry

You don’t even remember unlocking the door.

One minute you were finishing your nightly routine; soft pajamas, skincare, lights dimmed. The next, Rafe Cameron was in your kitchen, swirling a glass of whiskey like it belonged to him, and Barry stood in the corner with that heavy-lidded stare like he was casing a scene.

“Why… are you both here?” Your voice trembled.

Rafe’s smirk curled slow. “Told Barry you needed some… guidance.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Barry said, dragging smoke from his cigarette.

You backed up until your body met the counter.

Rafe followed. “Wanna know what happens to girls like you when they catch our attention? Huh? Play both sides thinking the other won't catch on?"

Barry came up behind you. His hand slid slowly around your waist. Not forcing. Just…holding. The contrast between his calloused palm and the thin fabric of your sleep shirt sent shivers through your whole body.

You shook your head, but it wasn’t convincing. “I… I wasn't…”

“Wasn't what?” Barry murmured into your ear, voice molten and slow. “Don’t know what you want? Or don’t wanna admit it?”

Rafe’s hand came up to your jaw, fingers tilting your chin up. “We’ll help. Won’t we, Barry?”

Barry only nods at Rafe's words.

Your lips parted to protest, but Rafe was already kissing you, while Barry’s hands wandered lower, dragging the hem of your shirt up inch by inch.

You whimpered. Too much, too fast, but your body ached. Your hips betrayed you, shifting back against Barry’s pelvis, where he was already hard.

“See?” Rafe breathed, breaking the kiss. “She likes it.”

Barry groaned. “She loves it.”

They manhandled you to the couch, with every touch a little rougher. Rafe pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, leaning over you completely. Barry knelt between your thighs, dragging your panties down slow, eyes locked to your face the whole time.

“You ever been touched like this?” Barry asked, fingertips grazing your inner thigh. You shook your head. Mistake.

“Fuck,” Rafe muttered.

Rafe kissed down your neck, biting at the soft spots that made you whine. Barry’s mouth was hot between your legs, tongue quick to work and merciless. Your hips jerked, too much. Rafe chuckled darkly, pinning you harder, whispering filth in your ear while Barry devoured you.

Your thighs shook. You didn’t know where to look, who to beg, what to do—

“Let go,” Barry ordered. “Now.”

You came with a scream; loud, broken, and desperate. But they weren’t done.

Not even close.

Rafe unzipped his jeans with one hand, the other still holding your wrists. “She can take it.”

Barry leaned back on his heels, licking his lips. “She will.”

You lost track of how many times they made you come. Rafe fucked you rough, a hand around your throat, eyes gleaming with obsession. Barry took his time, fingertips placed on your overstimulated core, whispering how good you were being for them.

“You hear that?” Rafe hissed in your ear, his voice full of lust. “That’s how wet she is, Barry. Sweet little thing’s fucking dripping.”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Rafe wiped the tear with his thumb, smiling. “Aw, baby. Is it too much?”

“You were made for this,” Barry said, standing up, unbuckling his belt. “Wanna play us so bad, thinking we're clueless?”

Rafe pushed your thighs wider. “She’s gonna take both. You can have her throat.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Wh-what?”

Barry chuckled. “Oh, now she’s scared again.”

“She loves being scared,” Rafe said. “Don’t you, princess?”

You couldn’t answer. You just whimpered when Barry grabbed your jaw and made you look at him.

“Too late to play innocent now.”

Barry slid into your throat, quickly picking up his speed, rough and unrelenting. He gripped your throat and whispered what a perfect, filthy little toy you were becoming, something inside you snapped.

You stopped fighting it, letting the the fear you felt melt into need.

When they finished, your body was wrecked, your mind hazy, and your lips swollen from too many kisses and cries.

Barry leaned in close, mouth against your temple, and said, “You’re ours now.”

Rafe licked the sweat from your neck and added, “Hope you don’t think this was a one-time thing."

You simply nodded.

[familyvideostevie]

tlou hbo season 2: episode 4 thoughts

wowwwww i think i might be having a good time now, you guys. who knew! at this point I'm just along for the ride and my beef is my beef but i can appreciate a lot of what they are doing. this post is delayed cause i could not be bothered last night but here we go.

spoilers for tlou hbo and tlou part ii below.

EPISODE 4: DAY ONE

GOOD -i am immensely compelled by the 2018 flashback (minus that cameo). the backstory of seattle that we get in day 2 of the game is some of my favorite environmental storytelling -- how the regular people didn't like FEDRA but liked the WLF even less, how the WLF capitalized on FEDRA's failures but ultimately was just another form of martial law, etc. Jeffrey is as good as it gets, and Craig is smart to use Isaac more. I find his turn interesting and this idea that they are pushing of the end of the world just being a cycle of us vs them that everyone is caught in even if they know they're caught in it. -loving the sets. weston's, the city landscape, the rainbows, the tank, the music store! i could go on. i am replaying part ii along with the show and just did some of day 1 so it was a delight to see all of those things. -take on me my beloved.......if i ever were to lose you, how i miss you. -again with this Isaac focus! i think it's really smart. i think the only way to make the wlf and abby's eventual defection interesting is for us to learn about this place that has shaped her so heavily. the torture was perhaps the most difficult part of ths show to watch thus far, frankly, but it also raised some really interesting questions about faith and the power it gives people. the seraphite had such faith that he became useless to Isaac because he was not going to give in -- where else in this story do we see such blind devotion and the places it can take them? *cough*. i don't want to give craig too much credit but i think this is a good theme to be running with. -the tv station!!!!!!!! arrows!!!! rip leah you don't exist here but this whole sequence was fantastic. as someone who plays no return to destress, the set here was great. the bodies, the seraphite intro for dina and ellie, the sneaking around! exactly like stealth play in the game. ellie's kill and the neck stab! i was giggling. it's just so cool to see shit like this play out on screen. -the flaressssssssss. god, the subway was just so beautiful. i loved the way it looked and felt and the music. -saving dina with a bite! i wondered how they'd do this reveal (though it does seem like we will be getting spores anyway) and this makes sense. damn the bite looked painful. -the theater. again with these sets! loving loving loving them so far. -okay. dina and ellie in the theater. this whole conversation about ellie's immunity is the first time that HBO!ellie and dina felt like...an ellie and dina that worked for me, even though the set-up of this confrontation is totally different. the mannerisms and panic and exasperation from bella really clicked. and though this dina is different, isabela really took the episode for me in this scene. i said to my friend oh, she's Acting. the fear, the shaking, the tears! i find the way HBO!dina switches between being extremely competent and practical to being silly and flirty very interesting but she really sells it for me. and god, some of these shots were just amazing. the tears and the lantern! -and, finally. i forgive craig for that tent scene. do i think we needed that? no. BUT. LETS GO LESIBANS LETS GO. get fingered with those dirty-ass hands! kiss!!!! KISS! and not for nothing i liked that dina got to explain herself, even if i think we didn't really need this absent homophobe mother. we've got one already and his name is seth! but, wow. the elation i felt. also, ellie was funny as fuck here. more on this scene in the next section

IFFY -what the FUCK is josh peck doing here. i was so taken out of it i did not know what was happening for like, 2 minutes. i honestly couldn't tell if i was making it up. i guess if they wanted us to hate him and everyone in that truck, they succeeded. but, literally, why. -bro, would a pregnancy test even work. i know she took like 5 of them but, can someone fact check that one -dina's sixth sense is really funny to me? i like it in abstract, like it's cool that she's good at this, but also i think it's at odds with how i sometimes feel about her and ellie's dynamic in combat. more on this later. -okay but does ellie actually want a kid. i don't feel sold on the idea of her being that excited given the circumstances. i feel like the pregnancy reveal in the game had a lot more weight and her frustration felt really valid if harsh, so while it was kind of nice to see her be excited for something i was a little like....okkkkkkaaaaaay. the dialogue was funny, though. we're having a baby. so we're all having a baby. I'm gonna be a dad. it fit for HBO!ellie, and that's what I'm watching, so i really should stop complaining. -i'm interested in ellie wanting dina to stay. it's different now. removing the obstacle of dina being pregnant on the road and physically unwell because of it makes things a little murkier -- i wonder if she will become tired/unable to fight eventually, or if she'll get injured. because i think so much of the downward spiral ellie will find herself in is because she goes to the hospital alone and kills nora, etc. i guess jesse has to show up at some point, too! i wonder how that'll go over -- i do like this idea that ellie has plans for the three of them to be doing the kid thing together after seattle, since that'll just. really hurt. when he dies.

BAD -please for the love of god can we get dina a hair tie. she has the most beautiful hair and 2023 curtain bangs but my god. please. she's soaked by rain and has been running from infected in a dirty subway and stayed up all night to watch ellie maybe turn into a zombie and yet she's freshly blow-dried. PLEASE. -okay, i have some beef with the way dina and ellie are written (we knew this). while i think it's fitting for the style of the show and the characterization, i think it's now coming out specifically in the way they are in combat situations. and i just don't like it! i think it's kind of weird! they are just...idiots, sometimes! and other times they are capable! i know this is like, how people are, but the immaturity thing comes back. i just don't believe that these young women are so unable to handle themselves that they make mistakes like this -- or potential mistakes. ellie wanting to go to the tower and dina telling her it's a trap, etc. how is ellie that dumb? i know she's motivated, but something about ellie is that she's smart. she's good at this. and i like that dina is her grounding force but to constantly be guiding her this way feels a little much. i just don't have a sense of the trust between them and their actual ability to get shit done? am i making sense is this dumb -why does dina have feathered brows. isabela is so beautiful but guys come on -he taught you well. he did. okay. i hated this, sue me. i just hate the way that we're talking about joel and ellie's talking about joel and dina is talking about joel. it lacks impact because of the way we don't know how they parted -- that they were talking but fighting and joel was being bratty frankly and ellie is just...lying to herself about how it all went? i don't know. and dina god love her but please. i get that there is shared grief there but i just like, don't see what the payoff is.

anyway, i'm on board. like, i really am i guess. down to clown. probs my favorite episode so far. and day two my beloved...hope you don't disappoint me

[aster-does-indeed-exists]

finished ena5 recently

[longagoitwastuesday]

Spike from Cowboy Bebop gives big the grapes dream scenes in Of love and other demons vibes

[apprentice-s]

what are everyone’s thoughts on the allura ships

[dracimexidae]

Watched the first 2 episodes and the only conclusion i got so far is that Sophie Okonedo is the real true QUEEN and i would gladly submit to her, she doesn't even have to ask ❤️‍🔥👑🧎

[akkivee]

naughty busters drama track: youthful riot summary

i’m not good enough to give a line by line tl of the track but i tried to make it as comprehensive as i could without it. you can listen to it here but if you can buy dawn of divisions vol 3, please do!!!! cdjapan has it in stock still!!!!

———

the drama track opens up with the end of otome’s coup speech and ichiro watching the televised event.

otome: instead of foolish, warmongering men, women will be the ones to give the world a fresh start!!

ichiro: whoever just became our leader better be powerful because nothing is going to change for us.

time passes, and ichiro’s just gotten done with his tasks of the day. he figures he might as well go home when he hears footsteps approaching.

kuukou: found ya, ichiro!!

ichiro: oh kuukou!! what’s up??

kuukou asks him if he’s seen the news and upon ichiro’s confirmation, he tells him he should know what these are and tosses him a mic. ichiro’s surprised, and kuukou explains as soon as he saw the power the mics had from the televised coup, he knew he had to give it a try and signed them both up for their mics. it’s then ichiro recalls that these are the hypnosis mics and kuukou demands they give them a whirl, to which ichiro agrees to do tho he sounds a startled by the sudden activity.

kuukou gives a self-introductory rap but when the blow lands on ichiro, ichiro comments it’s a little underwhelming and kuukou wonders how to get the output of power he’s seen. kuukou tells ichiro he’s up next and ichiro delivers his own introductory rap that similarly feels weak. ichiro speculates rapping skill may have an impact on their power so kuukou suggest they better get to practicing then!! agreeing, ichiro says that they need to get good with the mics as fast as they can because this will be the newest weapon everyone will get their hands on. kuukou sees his point and says and they need to stay ahead of the game, which is exactly what ichiro was thinking so they better get on it he exclaims!!!

—————————

we flash forward and training is done. kuukou suddenly started chuckling to himself and ichiro asks him what’s he laughing at. kuukou’s feeling good about how hard their rap training was, ichiro’s lyrics were strong and just about knocked him unconscious!!! ichiro asks if getting knocked out was really something to laugh about and kuukou tells him something along the lines of, “one should buy a lot of hardships.” well, ichiro does see benefits of their training and kuukou tells him soon they’ll both be knocking fools out together, to which cracks ichiro up a little.

ichiro suddenly gets a phone call. he answers the phone and after a brief conversation, states that he’ll be there shortly. kuukou asks him where he’s going and ichiro replies he’s been called in by mozuku.

kuukou: ah the corrupt priest huh…. guess that’s where we’re headed to next.

ichiro: it’s not like you have to follow me.

kuukou: stuuuupid. ain’t this something about your job?? what kinda partner would i be if i left you to do all the work alone?? so let’s go man.

and as kuukou walks away, ichiro pauses and quietly laughs to himself before following after kuukou.

—————————

the next scene, ichiro walks in mozuku’s office, followed shortly by kuukou.

mozuku is pleasantly surprised to see kuukou, as it’s been awhile, and asks if he’s here because he’s missed him. kuukou lets him know he’s the last person he wants to see. laughingly, mozuku says he’s so cold to him.

ichiro steers the conversation back to why mozuku asked him to come in. mozuku tells him he’s requiring a bodyguard service. for himself?? no, for a man who goes by the name osaragi, an investor known for evading taxes. kuukou asks if that’s the kind of guy that they’re guarding and mozuku confirms.

mozuku: do you remember tomabechi zakuro?

tomabechi zakuro, leader of the group Extortion, was the man who terrorised unami and her sister from dhbat manga chapter 12

apparently his right hand man, teshigawara, is after him. ichiro’s familiar with him, he’s the one who stepped up to take over the group after they helped put tomabechi in jail. kuukou asks why he’s after him and apparently he took off with all their money made in their name and left behind a wake of territorial disputes as well.

kuukou scoffs, that’s boring as shit.

mozuku: boring as it may be, i will be paying handsomely.

mozuku again tells ichiro to bodyguard this man and he’ll be sure to provide extra reinforcements.

grimly, ichiro accepts the job.

—————————

we next cut to our boys arriving at their rendezvous point, a business by the name of ‘Lounge.’

kuukou: tf kinda shop is ‘Lounge?’

ichiro: i’m not too sure either, but apparently you buy drinks and get to talk to women.

kuukou: *gives the most exasperated sigh* people really spend their money on this?? that’s so stupid.

ichiro comments to never mind what people spend their money on and they enter the shop.

once inside, they find a man laughing uproariously. ichiro hesitantly asks if he’s osaragi and introduces themselves as his bodyguards mozuku assigned to him. osaragi grumbles at the fact they’re just a bunch of kids and wonders if they’re capable at all. ichiro audibly reels in some anger and affirms that they can. well, as long as they don’t fck up, the money is his and osaragi commands them to stand off to the side so they don’t kill his drinking vibe.

they step away and kuukou swears at osaragi under his breath, calling him a pig. ichiro feels that and let’s kuukou know it’s fine if he’s not up to it and can go home. kuukou again chides ichiro, saying a partner is supposed to always stand by his side. besides, he’s looking forward to beating up some small fries.

kuukou: so i’m not leaving

ichiro: *chuckles* well, i’m glad you have my back, aibou-san

kuukou: *softly laughs* that’s right, just leave it to me!!

the moment is ruined when osaragi beckons them over like they’re his pets. very disgruntled, the two approach osaragi, who asks them if they drink tequila. kuukou firmly tells him he does not. osaragi insists tho, they can drink and do whatever they want to the women here, since they all owe him money. osaragi passes kuukou a glass imploringly, but kuukou, in a fit of anger, takes the glass, repeats he’s not drinking and makes to make a mess—

but ichiro stops him.

osaragi sneers at them, and ichiro declines for them, saying they’re here to bodyguard him, not to play around. osasari groans that they’re so uptight and sends them back to their spot since they’re making his drinks taste bad.

kuukou is ready beat the stuffing out of a pig.

ichiro quickly tells kuukou to calm down, they just gotta put up with him for the night. not mollified but putting it aside, kuukou brings up how those girls are under his command due to their debt to him. ichiro’s concerned about them too, but they can’t make any moves that might put their situation at risk. the girls need to be the ones to ask for help. kuukou concedes with a sigh, saying that’s a rather adult way to look at it. ichiro denies this; he’s only able to come to that conclusion because of his experience in this line of work.

if something goes wrong and he’s blamed for it, ichiro would feel like crap. kuukou hums in thought.

the doors suddenly burst open and a man demands to know where osaragi is. osaragi is in a panic and yells at ichiro and kuukou to protect him. they step up, itching for a fight and to their surprise, it’s teshigawara. they asked what happened to the men stationed outside and teshigawara and his men laugh, saying they made for some good punching bags. ichiro doesn’t understand how they took out so many of them and teshigawara reveals his hand:

he has a hypnosis mic.

so that’s what it was, ichiro muses, and their men hadn’t picked up mics yet. teshigawara is confident they have the upper hand here and tells them no amount of grovelling will save them if they get in their way. is that a threat, ichiro asks but it’s the opposite really. teshigawara feels thankful to them for getting him to the top of extortion, so he’s offering them a way out.

kuukou chuckles and asks ichiro what he’d like to do and ichiro answers they’ll make their own way out.

they take out their mics, much to teshigawara’s surprise, and spit bars about climbing to the top as a diss to teshigawara hand me down position.

their rap sends them flying!!!!

both ichiro and kuukou taunt their fallen enemies and it’s then osaragi shows himself, surprised the brats completed the job but pleased. kuukou scoffs at him and ichiro, job complete, excuses them from them scene.

but osaragi stops them from leaving, and demands they stay on as his bodyguards. he thinks they’re very well suited for this kind of work and offers to pay three times as much as mozuku’s offer. ichiro refuses and makes to leave again, but osaragi instantly knocks the price up to ten times the amount!!!! and offers up the number one hostess of the joint!!!! and they can have their pick of any of women he has under his control, repeating they can do whatever they want with them.

kuukou walks up to the lady osaragi is presenting to them, and tells her,

kuukou: hey miss. if you always hold your tongue, then nobody will ever understand what you need.

hostess: …………..please help me.

kuukou huffs, satisfied.

kuukou: ya hear that, ichiro-san??

ichiro: loud and clear. osaragi-san?

osaragi: so we have a deal??

ichiro punches the living daylights out of him. no they do not.

kuukou teases him, like whatever happened to not interfering where they aren’t welcome?? ichiro quips back that times change which draws out kuukou’s gremlin laugh, oh is that so??

ichiro lets out a deep sigh and says it’s time to go home.

as they set out, it strikes kuukou that they should make a team name for themselves.

ichiro: is it really that important??

kuukou: stuuuupid of course it is!!!! it gives proof that it existed.

ichiro: *pouty* well in that case, go ahead.

kuukou: but what would be a good team name……?? well, since ichiro’s suuuch a rebel, why don’t we go with “naughty monks”?

ichiro: that has nothing to do with me at all???

kuukou: you don’t think so?? then how about—

—————————

the scene changes for the final time and a man is on the run. he very quickly runs into a dead end tho, and, exhausted, turns to reckon with his fate.

kuukou: *laughs* i gotta admit you’ve got some big balls to be acting up in our territory!!!!

man: who……. who the fck are you guys?????

ichiro: we’re ‘naughty busters’, asshole!!!!